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Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  the 
Moral  Life 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1902 


TP 


??.3oo" 
Shakespeare's  Portrayal 

of 

The  Moral  Life 


By 

FRANK  CHAPMAN  SHARP,  Ph.D. 

Assistant  Professor  of  Philosophy  in  the 
University  of  Wisconsin 


Copyright,  igo2 
By  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

All  rights  reserved 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS    .     JOHN    WILSON 
AND      SON      •      CAMBRIDGE,     U.   S.  A. 


TO 

PROFESSOR   CHARLES    E.   GARMAN 

IN  GRATITUDE  AND  AFFECTION 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

Page 

Introduction .  ix 

Chapter 

I.    A  Study  of  Motives  .......  1 

II.    Transcendentalism 29 

III.  The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong   .  64 

IV.  The  Nature  of  the  Good  .....  77 
V.    Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless      .  97 

VI.    The  Freedom  of  the  Will      .     .     .     .  131 

VII.    Virtue  and  Happiness 159 

VIII.    Ethics  and  Metaphysics  ......  204 


INTRODUCTION 

If  conduct  be  "  three-fourths  of  life,"  or  in  other 
words  if  all  deliberate  action  have  a  moral  bearing, 
Shakespeare's  description  of  the  moral  world  is  but 
a  name  for  his  collected  works.  Accordingly,  since 
nothing  that  is  broadly  human  was  foreign  to  his 
mind,  or  failed  of  at  least  a  passing  notice  at  his 
hands,  the  title  of  the  following  study  would  seem 
to  be  as  comprehensive  as  that  of  the  professorship 
founded  for  Professor  Teufelsdrdckh  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Weiss-nicht-wo.  The  aim  of  this  under- 
taking, however,  is  a  modest  one.  Using  as  our 
material  the  concrete  facts  of  life  as  they  appear 
in  the  pages  of  the  great  dramas,  we  shall  merely 
attempt  to  discover  what  light  they  throw  upon 
a  single  group  of  ethical  problems.  Manifestly 
such  an  inquiry  may  be  confined  within  definite 
limits. 

The  problems  of  ethics  fall  into  two  distinct 
classes.  First,  the  moral  life  of  the  race  as  it 
actually  exists  and  has  existed  calls  for  description 
and  explanation.  Starting  from  the  phenomena 
of  moral  approval  and  disapproval,  in  other  words, 
from  the  fact  that  certain  actions  are  judged  right 
and  others  wrong,  we  here  ask  :  What  is  the  nature 


x  Introduction 

of  the  moral  judgment,  to  what  kinds  of  action  does 
it  attach  itself,  and  under  what  conditions  does  it 
arise  ?  Under  these  few  rubrics  may  be  disposed 
a  long  series  of  familiar  topics  :  the  standard  or 
standards  by  which  conduct  is  judged,  the  nature 
of  conscience  and  its  mode  of  working,  the  nature 
and  source  of  the  consciousness  of  obligation,  the 
conditions  under  which  responsibility  is  imputed 
(the  ethical  side  of  the  free-will  controversy),  and 
the  relation  of  metaphysical  and  theological  beliefs 
to  morality.  Others  closely  related,  as  the  connec- 
tion between  character  and  happiness,  and  the 
dynamics  of  virtue  and  of  crime,  will  naturally 
suggest  themselves  in  the  course  of  such  an  inquiry. 
In  the  exploration  of  this  broad  field  a  second  set 
of  problems  soon  presents  itself.  For  the  morality 
that  is  proves  to  be  a  mass  of  inconsistencies  and 
in  part  absurdities.  Accordingly  the  question 
forces  itself  upon  us,  How  can  we  reduce  the  moral 
judgments  of  mankind  to  a  consistent  and  reason- 
able system,  where  the  word  "  reasonable  "  means 
that  which  would  approve  itself  to  a  mind  cog- 
nizant of  and  sensitive  to  all  the  facts  of  human 
experience.  The  first  part  of  a  complete  treatise 
on  ethics  is  thus  in  method  a  science,  the  second 
an  art. 

To  the  catholic  mind  both  of  these  departments 
of  inquiry  are  alike  interesting  and  important. 
Every  wise  man  will  accept  with  gladness  any  as- 
sistance in  either  direction  which  the  skilled 
observer  of  human  life  is  able  to  offer  him.     Un- 


Introduction  xi 

fortunately,  however,  the  aid  that  Shakespeare  can 
give  us  is  limited  to  the  descriptive  branch  of  the 
subject.  Of  what  he  thought  about  the  art  of 
living  —  and  this  includes  the  art  of  judging  —  we 
have  no  direct  and  little  indirect  evidence.  There 
are,  indeed,  certain  historical  romances  masquerad- 
ing under  the  name  of  biographies  that  profess  to 
inform  us  what  he  thought  and  how  he  felt  upon 
almost  every  subject  of  human  interest.  But  their 
results  are  obtained  by  picking  out  from  the  varied 
deliverances  of  his  characters  those  with  which  the 
novelist  happens  to  agree.  Criticism  upon  such  a 
method  seems  superfluous.  I  at  all  events  shall 
not  attempt  to  use  it.  I  shall  confine  myself  to 
an  account  of  the  moral  life  as  it  is  represented 
upon  Shakespeare's  stage.  I  shall  treat  his  char- 
acters as  if  they  were  living  beings,  whose  con- 
sciousness we  —  happy  peepers  and  botanizers  — 
were  permitted  to  explore.  My  descriptions,  of 
course,  must  be  in  general  terms  ;  but  the  formulae 
in  which  they  are  presented  will  be  mine,  —  objec- 
tive statements,  as  far  as  possible,  of  what  I  dis- 
cover in  my  journey  through  the  world  he  has 
created.  What  thoughts  arose  in  the  dramatist's 
mind  as  he  contemplated  his  creations  thus  becomes 
a  matter  with  which  I  have  nothing  to  do.  Not 
merely  how  he  criticised  but  also  how  he  general- 
ized are  subjects  that  alike  fall  outside  the  inquiry 
that  is  here  proposed. 

How  far  these  offspring  of  a  poet's  imagination 
resemble  the  men  and  women  with  whom  scientific 


xii  Introduction 

ethics  attempts  to  deal,  I  have  in  the  main  re- 
frained from  considering.  There  is  as  yet  no  suffi- 
cient concensus  of  experts  in  this  field  to  make  the 
subject  worth  discussing,  although  we  are  un- 
doubtedly nearer  the  goal  than  we  were  a  genera- 
tion ago.  At  only  one  point  has  a  departure  from 
this  plan  seemed  desirable,  namely  in  the  study  of 
moral  pathology.  The  reasons  for  making  an  ex- 
ception in  this  case  will  appear  in  their  proper 
place. 

But  while  questions  of  truth  and  error  are 
allowed  for  the  most  part  to  pass  unconsidered, 
the  following  study  is  not  intended  as  a  mere  ex- 
ercise in  literary  interpretation.  It  is  an  attempt 
to  lay  before  the  reader  the  results  of  the  observa- 
tions of  a  man  who  was  one  of  the  most  gifted 
students  of  human  nature  the  world  has  ever  seen. 
The  record  that  he  left  no  worker  in  the  humani- 
ties can  afford  to  neglect.  No  worker,  in  fact,  does 
neglect  it.  But  the  concreteness  of  its  form  and 
the  intermixture  of  irrelevant  material  —  irrelevant 
from  the  point  of  view  of  science  —  which  is  the 
consequence  of  the  motives  that  brought  it  into 
being,  these  have  operated  to  render  much  it  could 
teach  us  practically  non-existent.  For  this  reason 
it  has  seemed  worth  while  to  re-write  that  portion 
which  deals  with  the  moral  life.  In  the  process 
its  beauty  dies  and  for  many  people  its  interest 
entirely  disappears.  There  may  be  some,  how- 
ever, who  will  care  to  make  a  systematic  review  of 
the  materials  which  the   great  observer  has  col- 


Introduction  xiii 

lected.     In  this  hope  the  present  experiment  has 
been  hazarded. 

In  order  to  get  Shakespeare's  powers  at  their 
best,  I  have  confined  myself  as  far  as  possible  to 
those  dramas  which  received  their  present  form 
after  the  close  of  the  year  1600,  or  in  other  words* 
to  the  works  of  the  third  and  fourth  periods  accord- 
ing to  the  common  classification.  These  dramas, 
it  will  be  remembered,  were  written  during  the  last 
ten,  or  at  most  twelve  years  of  the  poet's  literary 
life,  after  an  apprenticeship,  if  such  we  can  call  it, 
that  had  begun,  at  the  very  latest,  as  far  back  as 
1590.  It  has  not,  indeed,  proved  practicable  to 
exclude  all  references  to  the  earlier  works,  espe- 
cially the  English  histories.  But  it  will  be  found 
that,  where  issues  of  importance  are  at  stake,  it  is 
the  four  great  tragedies,  the  Roman  and  Greek 
histories,  the  small  group  of  romances,  and  the 
so-called  comedies,  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well, 
and  Measure  for  Measure,  that  supply  in  the  main 
the  material  for  our  investigation. 


Shakespeare's 
Portrayal  of  the  Moral  Life 

CHAPTER  I 

A  STUDY  OF  MOTIVES 

The  fundamental  fact  of  the  moral  life  is  the 
approval  and  disapproval  of  conduct.  It  might 
therefore  be  expected  that  our  first  topic  would 
be  an  account  of  the  moral  judgments  expressly 
enunciated  by  Shakespeare's  characters.  Such  in- 
deed would  be  the  prescription  of  logic.  But  the 
nature  of  the  material  at  our  disposal  compels  us 
to  begin  with  a  study  of  the  motives  in  which  the 
life  of  action  has  its  source.  True  it  is  not  with 
conduct,  but  with  judgments  upon  conduct,  that 
ethics  as  such  has  to  deal,  yet  no  absolute  line  of 
demarcation  can  be  drawn  between  the  two.  Every 
action  entitled  to  the  name  of  voluntary  is  the  out- 
come of  a  judgment  approving  it,  pronouncing  it 
an  action  that  for  some  reason,  or  perhaps  for  many 
reasons,  it  is  well  to  perform.  These  reasons  are 
the  motives.  A  study  of  motives  is  thus  a  study 
of  the  points  of  view  from  which  conduct  may  be 

1 


2       Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

approved,  and  a  complete  enumeration  of  the  mo- 
tives, persuasive  and  dissuasive,  operating  in  any- 
given  case  would,  therefore,  reveal  to  us  the  totality 
of  the  grounds  on  which  the  judgment  of  the  agent 
was  passed  at  the  moment  of  action.  Any  such 
enumeration  might  seem  to  involve  a  hopeless 
task  on  account  of  the  multitude  of  the  threads 
that  enter  into  the  fabric  of  even  the  most  com- 
monplace life.  But  by  confining  our  attention 
to  the  highest  types  of  moral  endeavor  we  so 
far  narrow  the  field  that  it  can  be  explored,  while 
at  the  same  time  we  omit  nothing  that  is  really 
essential.  At  the  conclusion  of  our  inquiry,  we 
should  accordingly  expect  to  be  in  possession  of 
the  data  with  which  to  construct  a  theory  of  moral 
judgments. 

Our  study  of  motives  may  fittingly  begin  with  an 
examination  of  King  Lear,  that  tremendous  drama 
of  struggling  optimism  in  which  are  disclosed  the 
sublimest  heights  and  deepest  abysses  of  human 
character.  What  inspired  the  humanity  of  Al- 
bany and  the  devotion  of  Gloucester,  Edgar,  and 
Kent  ?  Let  us  listen  to  the  confession  of  that 
loyal  servant  who  has  more  than  once  been  pro- 
nounced the  most  perfect  character  in  Shake- 
speare. The  childish  old  king,  thrown  into  a  fit  of 
petulance  at  the  ruin  of  a  pretty  little  theatrical 
effect  through  what  he  considers  the  unreasonable 
obstinacy  of  one  of  the  actors,  has  just  disowned 
his  best-loved  daughter  and  parted  her  patrimony 
between  her  sisters.     Kent  attempts  for  the  sec- 


A  Study  of  Motives  3 

ond  time  to  interpose,  when  Lear  with  mounting 
passion  cries  : 

"  Kent,  on  thy  life,  no  more. 
Kent.   My   life    I   never   held   but   as  a 

pawn  fcear  I.  i. 

To  wage  against  thy  enemies;  nor  fear  to 

lose  it, 
Thy  safety  being  the  motive." 

What  made  his  master's  safety  his  motive  ?  He 
himself  tells  us  as  he  enters  in  disguise  the  palace 
from  which  but  a  few  days  before  he  had  been 
driven  as  an  exile : 

"  Now,  banish' d  Kent, 

If  thou  canst  serve  where  thou  dost  stand 

condemn'd,  _  .     , 

1. 17.  4. 

So  may  it  come,  thy  master,  whom  thou 

lovest, 
Shall  find  thee  full  of  labours." 

"  Thy  master  whom  thou  lovest ! "  This  is  the 
key  to  a  devotion  which  did  not  ask  that  master's 
favor,  which  survived  his  prosperity  and  the  in- 
tegrity of  his  mind,  —  a  devotion  which  was  no 
mere  selfish  clinging  to  an  object  of  affection  as 
was  Antony's  passion  for  Cleopatra,  but  rather 
the  visible  expression  of  a  spirit  of  self-forgetting 
service  quickened  by  veneration,  love,  and  pity. 
In  the  wild  night  on  the   heath,  when   the   dis- 

1  The  text  of  all  quotations  from  Shakespeare  and  the  num- 
bering of  lines  follow  the  Globe  Edition. 


4       Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

guised  nobleman  and  the  fool  are  trying  to  prevail 
upon  Lear  to  take  refuge  in  the  hovel,  the  old  king 
turning  to  his  companion  plaintively  asks,  "  Wilt 
break  my  heart  ?  "  Answers  Kent :  "  I  had  rather 
break  mine  own."  This  is  not  declama- 
tion, it  is  prophecy.  For  as  soon  as  the 
strain  was  over  and  his  charge  had  been  brought  in 
safety  to  the  French  camp,  the  summons  came  call- 
ing him  to  his  long  home.  While  recounting  to 
Edgar  Lear's  wanderings  "  his  grief  grew 
puissant,  the  strings  of  life  began  to 
crack,"  and  he  fell  tranced  to  the  ground.  The 
warning  voice  was  not  misunderstood.  Come  to 
bid  his  king  and  master  aye  good-night,  he  sees 
that  master  gently  carried  before  him  through  the 
portal.  He  scarcely  notes  that  with  a  new  ruler  a 
better  era  is  to  dawn,  for  his  thought  is  fixed  upon 
the  journey  he  must  shortly  go.  The  end  is  at 
hand ;  and  soon,  like  the  faithful  fool,  he  will 
have  "  gone  to  bed  at  noon." 

While  in  Kent  altruism,  or  the  spirit  of  service, 
derives  its  strength  primarily  from  love,  in  Glouces- 
ter we  find  it  awakened  by  the  emotion  of  pity. 
"  Alack,  alack,  Edmund,"  he  says  to  his  son  after 
Lear  has  rushed  out  into  the  storm,  "  I  like  not  this 
unnatural  dealing.  When  I  desired  their  leave  that 
I  might  pity  him,  they  took  from  me  the 
use  of  mine  own  house."  Soon  he  is 
compelled  to  formulate  his  motives  in  the  presence 
of  the  infuriated  daughters  and  the  Duke  of  Corn- 
wall, for  they  have  been  informed  by  the  treacher- 


A  Study  of  Motives  5 

ous  Edmund  of  his  final  attempt  to  serve  Lear  by 
sending  the  old  king  to  Cordelia. 

Cornwall.    Where  hast  thou  sent  the  king? 
Gloucester.    To  Dover. 
Regan.   Wherefore  to  Dover? 

Gloucester.    Because  I  would  not  see  thy  cruel  nails 

Pluck  out  his  poor  old  eyes;  nor  thy  fierce  sister 

In  his  anointed  flesh  stick  boarish  fangs. 

The  sea,  with  such  a  storm  as  his  bare  head 

In  hell-black  night   endured,  would   have     in.  vii.  60. 

buoy'd  up, 
And  quench' d  the  stelled  fires : 
Yet,  poor  old  heart,  he  holp  the  heavens  to  rain. 
If  wolves  had  at  thy  gate  howl'd  that  stern  time, 
Thou  shouldst  have  said  "  Good  porter,  turn  the  key," 
All  cruels  else  subscribed. 

Pity,  too,  is  the  source  of  Albany's  devotion  to  the 
cause  of  Lear,  if  we  may  believe  the  taunts  of  his 
ferocious  wife.  When  at  last  he  has  been  forced 
to  open  his  eyes  to  the  true  nature  of  this  woman, 
he  turns  upon  her  and  tries  to  blast  her  with  invec- 
tive.    Utterly  unmoved  she  retorts : 

" Milk-liver'd  man! 
That  bear'st  a  cheek  for  blows,  a  head  for 
wrongs : 

IV.  ii.  50. 

that  not  know'st 
Pools  do  those  villains  pity  who  are  pun- 

ish'd 
Ere  they  have  done  their  mischief." 


L.  70. 


6       Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Goneril  is  reproaching  him,  it  will  be  remembered, 
for  delaying  to  take  the  field  against  the  French 
army  which  has  entered  England  to  restore  her 
father  to  the  throne.  Almost  the  next  moment 
brings  her  new  evidence  of  the  workings  of  com- 
passion. In  the  midst  of  their  mutual  recrimina- 
tions a  messenger  enters  bearing  the  information : 

"  The  Duke  of  Cornwall 's  dead : 
Slain  by  his  servant,  going  to  put  out 
The  other  eye  of  Gloucester. 
Albany.    Gloucester's  eyes ! 
Messenger.    A  servant  that  he  bred,  thrill'd 

with  remorse  [pity], 
Opposed  against  the  act,  bending  his  sword 
To  his  great  master." 

It  is  to  this  same  emotion  that  Cordelia's  thought 
spontaneously  turns  as  the  natural  restraint  upon 
inhuman  deeds : 

"  Had  you  not  been  their  father,  these  white 
IV.  vii.  30.  flakes 

Had  challenged  pity  of  them. 

And  the  hard-hearted  Edmund  apparently  shares 
her  view  of  the  place  of  this  motive  in  the  system 
of  human  incentives.     For  he  reminds  the  soldier 
sent  to   kill    Cordelia,   "  to   be   tender- 
minded  does  not  become  a  sword." 
A  study  of  the  place  of  love  and  pity  in  the  other 
plays  would  lead  to  similar  results.     They  are  not 
merely  recognized  as  forces  that  exist;  they  are 


A  Study  of  Motives  7 

counted  among  the  most  important  incitements  to 
service,  the  most  powerful  and  widely  diffused  re- 
straints upon  selfishness  and  passion.    It    Tempest  I. 
was  pity  that  moved  Prospero  to  teach    "•  353- 
Caliban ;  it  was  pity  to  the  general  wrong  of  Rome 
that  drove  from  the  heart  of  Brutus  the    j.  c.  m.  i. 
pity  for  his  friend ;  it  was  pity  (or  hu-    165-172. 
manity)  that  moved  Pisanio  to  disobey  his  master's 
command  to  murder  Imogen  ;   and  this  cym.  in.  ii. 
same  humanity  that  made  Camillo  at  the  15-17. 
risk  of  his  life  and  in  the  face  of  certain  exile  warn 
Polixenes  of  the  death  prepared  for  him    w.  T.  in. 
by  his  friend  and  host.     The  belief   in    "■ 166- 
the  universality  and  the  power  of  pity  is  attested 
by  the  fact  that  to  it  the  suppliant  habitually  ad- 
dresses his  principal  appeal ;   so  Arthur   in  King 
John,  Isabella  in  Measure  for  Measure,  and  Marina 
in  Pericles. 

In  the  preceding  description  altruism  has  been 
represented  as  aroused  by  some  strong  emotion. 
There  is,  however,  a  calm  regard  for  another's  good 
which  is  capable  of  moving  to  action,  just  as  the 
apprehension  of  our  own  good  may  control  our 
conduct  without  the  intervention  of  any  appreciable 
feeling.  Does  Shakespeare  recognize  and  report 
this  fact  ?  The  answer  is  not  easy  to  give.  The 
little  that  can  be  said  on  the  subject  may  best  be 
reserved  for  another  place.1 

It  will  now  be  clear  that  altruism  is  represented 
by  Shakespeare  as  one  of  the  most  important  factors 
1  See  p.  38. 


8       Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

in  the  moral  life.  This  suggests  the  question :  Do 
his  men  and  women,  after  the  fashion  of  some  well- 
known  moralists,  identify  virtue  with  altruism,  or 
do  they  recognize  the  pursuit  of  what  are  primarily 
personal  goods  to  be  legitimate  or  even  obligatory  ? 
Before  attempting  an  answer,  certain  possible  mis- 
understandings must  be  cleared  from  the  way.  It 
has  often  been  asserted  that  there  is  no  real  con- 
flict between  altruism  and  egoism,  that  your  good 
is  my  good,  because  what  is  for  your  best  interest 
is  for  my  best  interest  also.  The  data  upon  which 
this  assertion  rests  do  not  concern  us  here ;  but 
even  if  they  be  permitted  to  pass  unchallenged  the 
conclusion  drawn  from  them  involves  what  has  been 
called  the  psychologist's  fallacy.  This  form  of 
muddle-headedness  consists  in  the  substitution  of 
the  point  of  view  of  the  observer  who  is  acquainted 
with  all  the  relevant  facts  for  that  of  the  person  he 
is  observing.  Manifestly  if  the  agent  believes  him- 
self to  be  making  a  sacrifice,  a  conflict  with  his 
egoism  may  actually  take  place.  Manifestly  such 
a  person  may  ask  himself  how  far  the  spirit  of  ser- 
vice ought  to  be  allowed  to  carry  him.  Again,  it 
has  been  urged  that  self-sacrifice  does  not  represent 
any  assignable  phenomenon  of  human  life,  that 
what  goes  by  that  name  is  the  identification  of  my 
own  good  with  the  good  of  another,  the  making  of 
his  good  mine.  The  substance  of  this  contention 
must  be  granted,  but  there  still  remains  the  prob- 
lem :  Within  the  area  of  my  own  good  how  much 
consideration  ought  to  be  shown  for  that  which  is 


A  Study  of  Motives  9 

my  good  solely  because  it  is  another's,  and  that 
which  is  mine  independently  of  what  the  other's 
interests  may  be  ?  No  analytical  subtleties  can 
volatilize  into  nothingness  the  world-old  struggle 
with  this  perplexity. 

We  accordingly  enter  upon  no  barren  inquiry 
when  we  study  the  claims  of  egoism  against  altru- 
ism as  conceived  by  the  people  of  Shakespeare's 
world.  At  the  outset  one  fact  emerges  with  unmis- 
takable clearness.  The  ideals  of  what  is  due  as 
between  friend  and  friend,  servant  and  master, 
benefitted  and  benefactor,  and  in  general  those  who 
stand  in  some  exceptionally  close  relation  to  each 
other,  are  uniformly  set  very  high.  Witness  Isa- 
bella and  Cordelia,  Antonio,  the  merchant  of  Venice, 
and  Coriolanus,  who  throws  away  vengeance  and 
honor  at  the  prayer  of  his  mother.  Witness  the 
gruff  soldier  Enobarbus,who  takes  his  life  in  remorse 
at  having  abandoned  a  master  who  had  long  for- 
feited all  claims  to  his  allegiance.  But  the  obliga- 
tions to  service  are  not  limited  to  those  who  can 
urge  special  claims.  Camillo  gives  up  what  he 
most  loves,  and  risks  his  life  to  save  the  life  of 
Polixenes,  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner.  What  he 
suffered  in  leaving  his  native  land,  a  w.  T.  iv. 
self-condemned  exile,  is  shown  by  the  u-  4~10- 
passionate  longing  he  feels  to  return  to  Sicily,  not- 
withstanding the  brilliant  position  that  his  judg- 
ment and  character  had  won  him  at  the  court  of 
his  new  master.  It  is  the  story  of  a  single  noble 
deed  that   we   read   in  The   Winter's   Tale ;  but 


io     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Antonio,  Cerimon,  and  Timon  in  his  palmy  days, 
are  represented  as  passing  their  entire  lives  in  acts 
of  helpfulness  and  service.  What  these  men  do, 
they  and  others  approve.  For  they  are  not  de- 
spised by  their  neighbors  as  eccentric  fools ;  but 
rather  are  they  looked  up  to  with  humility  and 
reverence,  as  men  born  to  show  their  grosser  fellows 
a  more  excellent  way. 

Such  lives  need  not  betoken,  however,  a  creed  of 
complete  self-abnegation.  For  some  at  least  of  the 
most  altruistic  characters  distinctly  recognize  the 
existence  of  a  proper  limit  to  service.  The  Duke 
of  Vienna,  enumerating  to  Claudio  the  evils  of 
life,  treats  as  entirely  legitimate  the  pursuit  of 
ends  having  a  purely  personal  value.  In  his 
M.  for  M.  arraignment  of  the  fate  that  ever  holds 
III.  i.  5-41.  fae  g00(}  before  our  eyes  but  forbids  us 
to  grasp  it  with  our  hands,  there  is  no  trace  of 
the  dogma  enunciated  by  Fichte :  "  Whoever 
thinks  of  his  own  interests  as  an  interest  at  all,  and 
desires  any  life  and  being  whatever,  and  any  self- 
ish indulgence  whatever,  save  in  the  race  and  for 
the  race,  he  is  at  bottom,  whatever  be  the  good 
works  with  which  he  seeks  to  hide  his  misshapen 
form, nothing  but  abase,  despicable,  utterly  wicked, 
and  at  the  same  time  unhappy  man."  An  explicit 
assertion  of  the  rights  of  self  occurs  during  the 
dispute  between  Orlando  and  his  older  brother  in 
As  You  Like  It.  The  latter  having  feigned 
compliance  with  the  other's  demand  for  an  educa- 
tion and  an  allowance  sufficient  for  his  proper  sup- 


A  Study  of  Motives  1 1 

port,  Orlando  replies :  "  I  will  no  further 

offend   you   than    becomes  me   for  my 

good."     Still  more  unequivocal  are  the  words  of 

Rosencrantz  to  King  Claudio : 

"  The  single  and  peculiar  life  is  bound, 
With  all  the  strength  and  armour  of  the    Hamlet  in. 

mind,  ***• n- 

To  keep  itself  from  noyance." 

Rosencrantz  is  not  exactly  a  member  of  the  moral 
elite  ;  but  the  force  of  what  he  says  consists  in  the 
fact  that  it  has  the  air  of  a  commonplace,  express- 
ing not  merely  what  people  do  but  what  all  would 
admit  they  ought  to  do. 

The  principle  stated  in  the  words  just  quoted  is 
often  embodied  in  action.  Isabella,  —  that  spirit 
so  pure  that  even  the  foul-mouthed  Lucio  holds 
her  as  a  thing  ensky'd  and  sainted,  —  Isabella  de- 
clares herself  willing  to  die  but  not  willing  to  lose 
her  soul  in  order  to  save  her  brother's  M  f  M 
life.  And  while  this  of  course  does  not  n.  iv.  105- 
represent  her  real  motive  for  refusing  108, 
the  infamous  offer  of  Angelo,  it  is  certainly  a  con- 
sideration that  appeals  to  her  as  reasonable.  The 
highly  idealized  Henry  V.  — "  the  mirror  of  all 
Christian  kings" — never  thinks  of  waiving  his 
claim  to  what  has  fallen  to  him  and  his  heirs  by 
gift  of  heaven,  and  washes  his  hands  of  all  respon- 
sibility for  the  bloodshed  that  will  follow  the  asser- 
tion of  his  right.  In  leading  the  English  army 
into  France,  his  point  of  view  is  not  that  the  laws 


12     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

of  succession  have  imposed  upon  him  a  duty  to 
others  which  he  must  not  permit  himself  to  shirk  ; 
nor  is  it  that  we  owe  a  duty  to  the  world  at  large 
to  maintain  our  personal  rights,  as  Ihering  insists 
in  his  Kampf  urns  Recht.  Henry  simply  argues  as 
follows  :  This  fruitful  land  of  France  is  mine ; 
therefore,  let  the  consequences  to  others  be  what 
they  may,  I  am  justified  in  possessing  myself  of  it. 
Where,  then,  lies  the  limit  ?  The  son  of  Henry's 
royal  opponent,  on  learning  of  the  English  demands, 
encourages  his  father  to  resist  with  the  words : 
"  Self-love  is  not  so  vile  a  sin  as  self-neglecting." 
Henry  v.  This,  however,  is  no  universally  accepted 
n.  iv.  74.  axiom.  We  find  Antonio  professing 
himself  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice,  however 
extreme,  for  his  kinsman  Bassanio.  And  we  know 
his  are  not  empty  professions.  Desdemona,  in  like 
manner,  assures  Cassio  of  her  readiness  to  do  more 
Othello  in.  for  him  than  she  dare  for  herself, 
iv.  130.  Amidst  this  diversity  of  opinion  we  meet 
one  statement  that  appears  to  rest  upon  a  principle 
which  has  found  a  wide,  though  by  no  means  uni- 
versal acceptance  among  moralists.  When  the 
Athenian  senator  is  asked  for  a  loan  of  money 
with  which  the  most  pressing  obligations  of  the  now 
bankrupt  Timon  may  be  met,  he  urges,  by  way  of 
excuse  for  refusal,  his  own  extreme  necessities,  and 
as  major  premise  asserts :  "  I  must  not  break  my 

Timon  of        ^ack  *°  nea^  n^s  nnger-"     ^n  this  phrase 

Athens  II.     seems    to  be   implicitly    contained   the 

doctrine   that  has  been  formulated   by 


A  Study  of  Motives  13 

Professor  Sidgwick  as  follows :  "  One  is  morally 
bound  to  regard  the  good  of  any  other  individual 
as  much  as  one's  own,  except  in  so  far  as  we  judge 
it  to  be  less,  when  impartially  viewed,  or  less  cer- 
tainly knowable  or  attainable."  x  The  fact  that 
this  maxim  is  used  by  a  hypocritical  ingrate  as  an 
excuse  for  the  cold-hearted  treatment  of  a  former 
benefactor  argues  nothing  against  its  value.  For, 
as  Coleridge  has  pointed  out,  some  of  Shakespeare's 
worst  scoundrels  give  utterance  to  the  profoundest 
moral  truths.  Since  no  one  is  represented  as  delib- 
erately and  with  foreknowledge  breaking  his  back 
to  heal  another's  finger,  after  the  manner  of 
Maggie  Tulliver,  we  cannot  tell  how  such  a  sacri- 
fice would  have  been  regarded.  At  all  events  the 
limits  set  by  this  principle  are  those  which  the 
moral  tact  of  Isabella  teaches  her  to  respect. 
When  asked  by  Angelo  how  much  she  would  do  to 
save  the  life  for  which  she  pleads,  the  instant 
reply  is  :  "  As  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  myself." 
The  doctrine  that  in  cases  of  conflicting  M  for  M 
interests  duty  goes  with  the  greater  need  rv.  iv.  99. 
can  thus  claim  at  least  one  high-minded  and  en- 
lightened adherent. 

Which  if  any  of  these  different  views  represents 
the  dramatist's  own  position  it  is  unnecessary  to 
ask,  even  were  it  possible  to  answer.  What  is  of 
interest  is  the  fact  that  we  find  mirrored  in  Shake- 
speare's world  the  chaos  of  opinion  on  this  subject 
which   prevails   in  the   society  by   which  we   are 

1  The  Methods  of  Ethics  ;  Fourth  Edition,  p.  382. 


14     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

surrounded,  and  at  the  same  time  a  wide-spread 
recognition  that  the  moral  ideal  demands  a  bal- 
ance, a  mean  between  absolute  altruism  and  ab- 
solute egoism. 

Great  as  the  emphasis  placed  upon  self-forget- 
fulness  may  sometimes  be,  there  is  one  personal 
good  the  desire  for  which  is  represented  as  not 
merely  legitimate  under  all  circumstances,  but  also 
as  a  normal  constituent  of  the  ideal  character. 
This  good  is  honor.  The  Trojan  Hector,  the  Eng- 
lish Hotspur,  the  courtier  Camillo,  the  merchant 
Antonio,  the  artless  Desdemona,  and  Cato's  heroic 
.  daughter,  each  could  say  with  Brutus :  "  I  love) 
the.jia.me  of  honour  more  thanj  fear  deatih?P  He 
who  is  dominated  by  such  a  spirit,  provided  he  has 
at  the  same  time  a  just  sense  of  what  it  demands, 
Henry  vill.  can  do  no  wrong.  "  That  you  would 
I.  ii.  14.  love  yourself,  and  in  that  love  not  un- 
consider'd  leave  your  honour,"  1  is  for  this  reason 
the  point  of  the  petition  which  Queen  Katharine 
carries  to  her  royal  husband  in  behalf  of  his  op- 
pressed subjects.  She  believes  that  if  the  monarch's 
sense  of  honor  can  be  actively  enlisted  her  cause 
is  safe. 

Honor  is  a  somewhat  ambiguous  term.  But  the 
meaning  it  carries  in  Shakespeare's  plays  will  ap- 
pear with  perfect  clearness  if  we  examine  the  use 
of  the  corresponding  verb.  This  connotes,  we  find, 
the  two  closely  allied  emotions  of  admiration  and 

1  This  passage  occurs  in  a  part  of  the  play  commonly  assigned 
to  Shakespeare. 


A  Study  of  Motives  15 

respect.  A  sufficient  example  is  the  passage  in 
Cymbeline,  where  the  description  of  the  virtues  and 
excellences  of  Posthumus  by  one  of  his  friends  calls 
forth  the  exclamation  on  the  part  of  his  compan- 
ion, "  I  honour  him  even  out  of  your 
report."  In  agreement  with  this  usage, 
the  love  of  honor  will  signify  either  a  desire  for  the 
respect  and  admiration  of  others  or  a  desire  for  the 
possession  of  those  elements  or  traits  of  character 
which  are  the  objects  of  respect  and  admiration. 

In  the  plays,  as  in  real  life,  these  two  closely 
allied  impulses  are  for  the  most  part  inextricably 
intertwined.      Occasionally,   however,  one   is   dis- 
coverable in  separation  from  the  other.     It  is  at 
honor  in  the  exclusive  sense  of  the  admiration  of 
his  fellowmen  that  Falstaff  is  girding  in  his  famous 
monologue  on  the  eve  of  the  battle  of    j  Hen  Iv 
Shrewsbury.     But  while  the  fat  knight    V.  i.  127- 
will  have  none  of  it,  the  desire  for  a 
good  name  is  pictured  as  a  dominant  force  in  every 
generous     nature.     Thus     Enobarbus,     debating 
whether   to   remain   true   to   his  defeated  master 
Antony,  strengthens   for  the   moment  his   failing 
loyalty  by  the  reflection 

"  He  that  can  endure 

To  follow  with  allegiance  a  fall'n  lord        .    „  „  TTT 
°  a.  &/C.  in. 

xiii.  43. 
earns  a  place  i'  the  story." 

Potent  as  is  the  desire  for  the  applause  accom- 
panying elevation  of  character,  it  yields  precedence 


1 6     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

in  the  highest  representatives  of  the  race  to  the 
desire  for  the  applauded  thing  itself.  The  nature 
of  the  spell  which  character  exerts  upon  the  noble 
mind  can  be  indicated  with  exactness.  For  if  that 
quality  in  virtue  of  which  an  object  evokes  ad- 
miration may  properly  be  called  beauty,  then  we 
may  maintain  with  him  of  "  the  pasteboard  and 
the  battered  hack "  :  "  There  are  two  kinds  of 
beauty,  the  beauty  of  the  body,  and  the  beauty  of 
the  soul."  To  this  aspect  of  the  moral  life,  Shake- 
speare's people,  true  children  of  the  Renaissance, 
were  as  sensitive  as  the  Greeks.  References  to 
actions  or  to  the  character  behind  them  as  comely, 
fair,  or  beautiful,  or  on  the  other  hand  as  foul  or 
ugly,  recur  constantly ;  and  the  phrase  /ca\6<;  /caya- 
66s  —  impressive  witness  of  the  completeness  with 
which  for  the  Greek  mind  the  conceptions  of  the 
good  and  the  beautiful  were  interwoven  —  actually 
meets  us  in  English  dress  in  the  well-known  pas- 
sage from  Hamlet : 


"ov 


"  That  monster,  custom  ...  is  angel  yet 

_     .  .  in  this, 

Hamlet  '  ... 

HI.  iv.  161.       That  to  the  use  of  actions  fair  and  good 

He  likewise  gives  a  frock  or  livery, 

That  aptly  is  put  on." 


How  literally  these  epithets  may  be  interpreted  is 
shown  to  demonstration  by  the  words  in  which  the 
Duke  of  Venice  dismisses  Desdemona's  father  from 
the  council  chamber : 


A  Study  of  Motives  17 

"If  virtue  no  delighted   [delight-giving] 

beauty  lack,  Othello  I. 

Your  son-in-law  is  far  more   fair   than    *"■  290. 
black." 

Here  moral  and  physical  beauty  are  expressly 
placed  in  the  same  category.  It  is  thus  thoroughly 
in  keeping  with  the  attitude  taken  towards  char- 
acter throughout  the  plays  that  their  one  ethical 
definition  should  read :  "  Virtue  is  t.  n.  ni. 
beauty."  ™-  403. 

Beauty  of  character,  like  beauty  in  the  realm  of 
nature,  discloses  itself  in  varied  forms.  These  we 
find  not  merely  portrayed  —  as  we  should  expect, 
—  but  also  more  or  less  explicitly  analyzed.  The 
definition  just  quoted  from  Twelfth  Night  occurs 
in  a  passage  that  begins  : 

"  In   nature   there 's  no  blemish   but  the 

mind;  In  .     4Q1 

None  can  be  call'd  deform'd  but  the  un- 
kind." 

By  "  unkind  "  our  philosophical  sea-captain  means 
without  gratitude  or  natural  affection.  Here 
is  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  the  cf.  Lear  1. 
grateful  and  affectionate  mind  is  di-  iv- 281- 
rectly  attractive  for  its  own  sake,  quite  independ- 
ently of  what  any  one  can  "  get  out  of  it."  As 
such  it  is  fairly  entitled  to  be  classed  with  the 
beautiful.  A  study  of  the  eulogies  scattered 
through  the  plays  would  show  that  the  virtues  of 
generosity,  as  in  forgiving  an  enemy,  of  forbear- 

2 


1 8      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ance  from  self-assertion,  which  is  a  form  of  the 
same,  and  of  the  broad  spirit  of  self-devotion  to 
the  common  weal  are  in  like  manner  valued  for 
their  own  sakes.  By  parity  of  reasoning  the 
adjective  noble  by  which  they  are  designated  must 
be  interpreted  as  possessing  an  aesthetic  connotation. 

A  second  form  of  moral  beauty,  —  one  whose 
claim  to  the  title  no  one  would  think  of  disputing, 
—  is  the  display  of  will-power.  Wherever  we  be- 
hold the  strength  that  at  need  can  crush  passion 
and  the  lust  for  ease  and  pleasure,  the  courage 
that  can  face  loss  without  flinching,  the  fortitude 
that  can  bear  without  a  murmur,  the  patience  that 
can  work  or  wait  for  an  issue  long  delayed,  the 
energy  that  breaks  down  every  obstacle,  there  we 
feel  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  a  power  whose 
least  effect  demands  our  homage,  and  whose 
higher  manifestations  bow  us  down  in  humility  and 
awe,  and  make  us  think  we  "  walk  in  hallowed 
cathedrals." 

It  is  obvious  that  power  of  will  may  exist  dis- 
sociated largely  or  entirely  from  affection,  grati- 
tude, generosity,  or  indeed  any  form  of  the  altruistic 
spirit.  Hence  the  two  principles  of  beauty  that 
have  been  described  may  come  into  conflict  with 
each  other.  It  is  also  possible  that  the  spectator 
of  life's  drama  may  be  so  stunted  in  mind  and 
heart  as  to  be  incapable  of  responding  to  the 
charm  of  affection  and  humanity.  Naively  assum- 
ing that  no  one  else  can  possess  what  he  lacks,  he 
will  interpret  all  devotion  as  the  outcome  of  fear 


A  Study  of  Motives  19 

or  -weakness  of  some  sort,  and  thus  as  the  mark  of 
a  slavish  spirit.  For  such  a  one  there  can  be 
nothing  great  in  man  but  power.  This  view,  pro- 
pounded long  ago  by  the  sophists  of  the  Gorgias 
and  the  Republic,  has  been  recently  revamped  by 
the  German  rhapsodist,  Nietzsche,  and  forms  the 
burden  of  the  message  which  he  has  felt  con- 
strained to  bring  to  a  Philistine  world.  Childish 
as  are  many  of  the  dicta  of  this  half-finished  per- 
sonality, preposterous  as  is  his  "  philosophy  "  when 
taken  as  a  statement  of  the  whole  truth  about  man, 
there  is  unquestionably  a  certain  grandeur  in  the 
ideal  which  he  sets  himself  to  recommend.  "  Beau 
comme  une  temp^te,  comme  un  abime,"  exclaims 
Renan  of  the  career  of  Nietzsche's  idol,  Caesar 
Borgia,  and  few  lovers  of  the  Renaissance  would 
gainsay  him.  Nevertheless,  for  the  well-rounded 
mind  such  admiration  is  only  possible  through 
a  certain  effort  of  abstraction.  And  in  proportion 
as  the  capacity  to  see  or  imagine  the  man  and  his 
actions  in  their  entirety  is  developed,  will  repulsion 
tend  to  destroy  enthusiasm  where  power  appears 
dissevered  from  altruism. 

Similar  changes  of  appreciation  occur  where  the 
relation  between  these  two  qualities  of  will  is  re- 
versed. There  are  many  amiable  persons  in  the 
world  who  wish  others  well  but  who  are  incapable 
of  overcoming  any  serious  obstacle  in  their  behalf. 
When  such  persons  show  equal  inefficiency  in 
the  advancement  of  their  personal  interests  and  are 
at  the  same  time  free  from  gross  passions,  their 


20     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

weakness  is  apt  to  be  regarded  by  the  superficial 
as  at  worst  a  mere  peccadillo,  at  best  as  an  actual 
addition  to  their  charm.  Henry  VI.  is  a  repre- 
sentative of  this  type.  Tender-hearted,  honorable, 
sincere,  modest,  a  lover  of  his  country,  a  partisan 
of  the  good  cause,  he  lacks  decision,  energy,  cour- 
age, and  even  pride,  —  in  short,  the  power  to  assert 
himself  in  the  face  of  opposition.  For  popular 
thought,  despite  these  ominous  deficiencies,  he  re- 
mains the  "  saintly  king."  Nevertheless  he  can- 
not escape  the  condemnation  of  the  judicious. 
And  though  his  fall  may  evoke  our  pity,  it  is 
not  with  us  as  when  we  see  his  noble  uncle, 
the  Lord  Protector,  worthy  brother  of  Henry  V., 
struck  down  by  his  enemies  in  the  midst  of  his 
life  work. 

In  passing  judgments  upon  character,  however, 
we  must  not  overlook  the  difference  between 
absent  power  and  latent  power.  Power  can  be 
revealed  to  its  possessor  and  the  world  only  as 
it  is  demanded  for  overcoming  resistance.  But 
there  are  those  so  harmoniously  constituted  that 
storm  and  conflict  are  strangers  to  their  inner 
life.  If  this  be  due  to  a  cowardly  retreat  in  the 
presence  of  privation  or  danger,  or  to  barrenness 
of  the  emotional  and  impulsive  nature,  the  result 
either  inspires  contempt  or  appeals  to  us  as  in- 
sipid. But  where  there  is  great  wealth  of  emo- 
tional endowment,  a  capacity  for  devotion  to  the 
highest  ends  which,  though  untried,  is  not  without 
its  witness,  there  we  have  a  new  variety  of  moral 


A  Study  of  Motives  21 

beauty.     In  distinction  from  the  heroic  this  may 
perhaps  be  called  the  idyllic. 

The  keynote  of  the  idyllic  life  is  peace,  peace 
with  the  world  and  with  self.  In  such  a  nature 
there  are  no  warring  passions  to  be  crushed,  no 
temptations  to  profit  at  the  expense  of  others  to 
be  overcome,  while  envy,  hatred,  and  malice,  that 
make  man  the  enemy  of  man,  have  here  no  place. 
The  authority  of  right  is  owned  with  glad  self- 
surrender,  and  in  the  service  of  others  is  found 
the  source  of  deepest  and  most  permanent  joy. 
To  such  a  one  Duty  is  no  stern  law-giver,  nor 
does  he  know  her  except  as  a  friend. 

"  There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  who  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  ; 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not." * 

The  idyllic  character  is  in  some  respects  a  direct 
antithesis  to  the  heroic.  The  hero  appears  before 
us  with  his  head  surrounded  by  the  halo  of  victory, 
but  the  pain  of  conflict  has  left  its  mark.  For  this 
reason,  as  Schiller  has  pointed  out,  the  sublime  in 
life  always  contains  an  un  aesthetic  element.  But 
to  the  child  of  sunshine  and  of  spring  can  fall  no 
victor's  crown,  because  he  knows  no  strife.  For 
what  the  hero  accomplishes  only  at  the  cost  of 
effort  and  pain,  is  for  him  a  work  of  ease  and  joy. 

1  Wordsworth  :    Ode  to  Duty. 


11     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Nevertheless  the  antithesis  is  far  from  complete. 
In  this  world  of  jarring  forces,  untroubled  peace 
usually  comes  as  the  fruit  of  conquest.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  instances  where  the  soul  has 
known  nothing  else.  Endowed  at  birth  with  a 
temperament  that  turns  to  virtue  as  instinctively  as 
a  flower  to  the  sun,  that  shrinks  from  the  touch 
of  sin  as  from  the  defilement  of  pitch,  that  knows 
no  distinction  between  the  interests  of  self  and  of 
others,  its  various  impulses  are  so  finely  tempered 
and  so  exquisitely  adjusted  to  each  other  that  their 
spontaneous  play  is  goodness.  Like  the  lily  of  the 
field  it  is  beautiful  without  toil,  without  care,  with- 
out intention.  Even  here,  however,  the  principle 
holds  that  the  suggestion  of  power  must  not  fail. 
Think  for  a  moment  of  Perdita  and  Miranda,  those 
fair  forms  that,  glorified  by  all  the  resources  of 
the  poet's  art,  pass  across  the  scene  like  visitors 
from  a  higher  world.  Wherein  do  they  surpass 
a  Henry  VI.  ?  Is  it  not  in  this,  that,  whereas  the 
latter  can  never  be  anything  better  than  a  carpet- 
knight,  these  two  delicate  creatures  possess  a 
strength  and  intensity  of  devotion  which,  if  need 
arises,  will  lift  them  high  into  the  sphere  of  the 
heroic  ? 

It  is  not  entirely  true,  then,  that  none  can  be 
called  deformed  but  the  unkind.  He  who  em- 
bodies the  ideal  of  goodness  must  be  endowed  in 
equal  measure  with  the  spirit  of  service  and  power 
of  will.  Think  of  Cordelia ;  think  of  Horatio ; 
think  of  those  two  great  characters  that  stand  at 


A  Study  of  Motives  23 

the  summit  of  the  creations  of  the  second  and 
fourth  periods,  Henry  V.  and  Prospero.  With  an 
amount  of  repetition  that  is  unusual,  this  union  of 
strength  and  unselfishness  is  declared  to  be  the 
very  substance  of  moral  perfection : 

"Thou  hast   affected   the  fine  strains  of 

,  Cor.  V.  iii. 

honour,  149;  cf.M. 

To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods  ;  of  V.  IV.  i. 

To  tear  with  thunder  the  wide  cheeks  o'    if4719li 

M.  for  M. 
the  air,  n.  a.  107- 

And  yet  to  charge  thy  sulphur  with  a    H7;  cym- 

bolt  IT-U-169- 


That  should  but  rive  an  oak." 


176. 


An  age  that  lends  its  ear  to  every  new  voice 
will  do  well  to  heed  this  warning  directed  alike 
against  sentimentalism  and  the  worship  of  the 
Raubmensch. 

The  foregoing  analysis  will  exhibit  the  error 
that  lurks  in  a  now  popular  doctrine.  It  is  quite 
generally  held  that  altruism,  or  the  regard  for  my 
neighbor's  interests,  and  honor  in  the  sense  of  the 
regard  for  my  own  character,  are  but  different 
names  for  the  same  thing.  This  confusion  has  its 
source  in  what  has  already  been  referred  to  as  the 
psychologist's  fallacy.  Objectively  considered,  a 
man  with  a  high  sense  of  honor,  guided  by  proper 
judgment  and  an  adequate  conception  of  responsi- 
bility, will  be  led  by  it  to  the  same  line  of  action  as 
the  man  whose  will  is  set  in  motion  by  the  aware- 
ness of  another's  needs.     It  will  often  come  to  pass, 


24     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

therefore,  that  the  desires  to  do  ease  to  another  and 
Hamlet  I.  grace  to  one's  self  will  be  indistinguish- 
i.  131.  able  except  as  the  agent  happens  to  be 

by  profession  or  by  nature  an  analyst.  But  that  the 
motives  are  not  identical  is  shown  —  if  in  no  other 
way  —  by  the  fact  that  one  may  act  where  the  other 
is  totally  wanting. 

This  appears  clearly  in  the  career  of  Banquo, 
that  would-be  receiver  of  stolen  goods,  who  has 
succeeded  in  imposing  upon  a  long  line  of  commen- 
tators. This  canny  Scotchman  was  perfectly  in- 
different as  to  what  happened  to  his  sovereign, 
provided  his  own  hands  were  not  soiled  in  the  oper- 
.  ,  ,    ation.    Like  Sextus  Pompey  in  a  similar 

Antony  and  <  _  r  J 

Cleopatra  situation  he  is  willing  to  approve  any- 
II.  vii.  67-86.  thing,  provided  he  may  be  kept  in  igno- 
rance of  it  until  the  time  for  preventing  it  is  past. 
The  only  difference  is  that  Pompey  forbids  his  cap- 
tain to  carry  out  the  treachery  which  would  make 
him  master  of  the  civilized  world,  while  in  that  very 
moment  reproaching  the  same  captain  for  not  doing 
it  without  orders ;  whereas  Banquo  simply  asks 
that  he  may  not  be  called  upon  to  take  an  active 
part  in  the  foul  play  which  he  suspects  is  being 
planned.  It  is  quite  true  that  Banquo  might  have 
been  saved  by  a  more  adequate  conception  of  re- 
sponsibility ;  he  does  not  seem  to  have  compre- 
hended that  a  man  is  answerable  not  merely  for 
what  he  does  but  also  for  what  he  can  prevent. 
There  is  no  evidence,  however,  that  Kent  was  better 
instructed  in  the  theory  of  responsibility  than  was 


A  Study  of  Motives  25 

Banquo  ;  but  his  thoughts  were  primarily  upon  his 
king,  not  upon  his  character  ;  therefore,  theories  of 
responsibility  were  not  necessary  for  him. 

What  appears  to  be  the  same  action  may  thus 
have  its  source  in  one  of  several  different  types 
of  character.  The  representative  of  the  first  type 
is  moved  habitually  by  the  desire  for  his  own 
perfection  ;  he  may  thus  act  quite  correctly  though 
by  nature  icy  cold.  His  neighbor,  on  the  other 
hand,  may  be  at  times,  or  habitually,  thoughtless  of 
his  own  perfection.  He  serves  others  because  he 
wishes  them  well.  Finally  these  two  sets  of 
motives  may  be  combined  in  the  same  individual, 
as  in  the  case  of  Brutus.  Whether  a  person  shall 
belong  to  one  class  or  another  will  depend  partly 
upon  temperament,  partly,  also,  upon  circumstances. 
Some  men  seem  to  have  been  born  with  a  looking- 
glass  before  the  face.  On  the  other  hand,  moral 
self-consciousness  may  be  the  result  of  life  in  the 
midst  of  a  corrupt  society.  It  is  mainly  for  this 
reason,  I  believe,  that  Isabella,  the  heroine  of 
Measure  for  Measure  is  so  sternly  conscious  of  her 
virtues.  Which  of  these  types  is  most  perfect  it 
may  not  be  necessary  to  determine.  But  the  clear- 
sighted student  who  compares  Isabella  with 
Miranda  will  discover  that  the  effects  produced 
upon  the  spectator  in  the  two  cases  are  essentially 
different. 

If  virtue  be  beautiful  and  thus  attractive,  it 
should  follow  that  vice  is  hideous  and  repulsive. 
But  this  is  not  the  whole  truth.     Certain  forms  of 


iG     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

vice  are  not  merely  hateful  in  so  far  as  they 
involve  qualities  the  direct  antitheses  of  the  cor- 
responding virtues ;  they  possess,  in  addition,  the 
power  of  arousing  a  sort  of  physical  revulsion, 
direct,  unreasoned,  but  sometimes  of  unmeasured 
intensity. 

The  emphasis  laid  upon  this  fact  by  Shakespeare 
is  a  characteristic  feature  in  his  delineation  of  the 
moral  life.  The  terms  employed  to  describe  the  feel- 
ings are  taken  by  preference  from  the  senses  of 
taste  and  smell.  Iachimo,  tossed  about  by  the  winds 
Cym.  I.  vi.  of  lust  and  shame,  cries  out, "  The  cloyed 
47-  will    longs   for    the    garbage."      King 

Claudius,  awakening  in  a  moment  of  remorse  to 
the  true  nature  of  his  crime,  expresses  the  loathing 
Hamlet  m.  with  which  it  fills  him  in  the  words,  "  0, 
iii.  36.  my  offence  is  rank,  it  smells  to  heaven." 

The  climax  of  Timon's  repulsions  is  expressed  in 
the  same  terms.  Timon  of  Athens  having  lavished 
his  wealth  upon  sycophants  and  parasites  finds 
himself  in  the  day  of  his  need  utterly  abandoned 
by  these  feeders  on  his  bounty.  In  the  prosecu- 
tion of  a  dramatic  revenge  he  invites  his  false 
friends  to  a  great  feast.  Upon  the  table  stand  the 
long  rows  of  dishes  as  of  old.  But  there  is  a  new 
Timon  m.  tone  in  the  host's  invitation  to  partake : 
vi.  95.  «  Uncover,   dogs,   and    lap,"    he    cries. 

The  dishes  being  uncovered  are  found  to  contain 
nothing  but  warm  water.  While  the  guests  look 
at  each  other  in  amazement  at  this  strange  scene, 
Timon  seizes  the  dishes,  and  throwing;  the  water 


Study  of  Motives  27 

into  their  faces,  screams  in  an  ecstasy  of  hatred 
and  detestation  : 

"This  is  Timon's   last ; 
Who,  stuck  and  spangled  with  your  flat- 
teries, L.  100. 
Washes  it  off,  and  sprinkles  in  your  faces 
Your  reeking  villany." 

The  specific  feeling  which  the  use  of  this  imagery 
is  intended  to  connote  is  described  in  express 
terms  by  the  boy  in  Henry  Y.  who  had  accom- 
panied Nym,  Bardolph,  and  Pistol,  that  graceless 
trio  of  braggarts  and  cut-purses,  to  the  Henry  V. 
French  wars  :  "  I  must  leave  them  and  IIL  H-  55- 
seek  some  better  service :  their  villany  goes  against 
my  weak  stomach,  and  therefore  I  must  cast  it  up." 
The  oft-recurring  epithet,  "unclean  mind,"  evidently 
takes  its  origin  from  the  same  area  of  experience. 

We  must  not  suppose  that  all  this  is  merely 
vague  metaphor,  indicating  in  a  general  way  the 
dislike  which  is  awakened  by  every  form  of  immo- 
rality. Apart  from  sporadic  cases,  like  the  aversion 
of  Hamlet  and  the  English  Tory  to  marriage  with 
the  nearest  relatives  of  a  deceased  husband  or  wife, 
these  unreasoned  antipathies  are  called  forth  by 
three  great  classes  of  actions.  The  first  is  weak- 
ness of  will  in  its  various  forms,  as  cowardice,  lack 
of  fortitude,  and  absence  of  self-control.  These 
inspire  contempt.  The  second  includes  all  that 
can  be  subsumed  under  the  term  treachery,  as 
hypocrisy,  flattery,  and  most  forms  of  mendacity. 


28     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

For  the  emotion  appropriate  to  them  we  ought  to 
restore  the  old  word  despisal.  Finally  there  are 
the  forms  of  sensual  indulgence  such  as  gluttony, 
drunkenness,  and  incest.  These  arouse  the  emotion 
of  disgust.  It  will  be  found  that  in  the  main 
Shakespeare  confines  the  terms  which  suggest  the 
nauseating  to  the  second  and  third  groups  of 
vices. 


CHAPTER  II 
TRANSCENDENTALISM 

No  careful  moralist  will  pretend  that  the  preced- 
ing study  contains  a  complete  enumeration  of  the 
forces  which  bring  into  existence  and  mould  into 
its  present  form  the  moral  life.  However,  it  in- 
cludes, I  believe,  all  the  material  relevant  to  our 
purpose  that  Shakespeare  has  supplied.  Whether 
the  data  thus  collected  are  sufficient  to  serve  as 
the  foundation  of  a  structure  worth  the  trouble  of 
building,  it  is  no  part  of  the  present  design  to  in- 
quire. But  it  should  be  noted  that  if  the  sketch 
just  given  is  substantially  correct  in  the  sense  that 
no  farther  additions  would  necessitate  any  radical 
modifications  in  the  general  theory  that  it  would 
suggest,  then  its  significance  lies  quite  as  much  in 
what  it  omits  as  in  what  it  contains.  Looking 
upon  the  compassion  of  Gloucester  and  the  glowing 
devotion  of  Kent,  no  student  of  ethical  history  can 
forget  that  for  a  very  important  school  of  moralists 
all  this  display  of  feeling,  while  doubtless  very 
affecting,  is  certainly  not  morality.  With  Kant, 
for  example,  the  action,  to  have  moral  value, 
must  be  performed  solely  for  the  sake  of  obeying 
the  command  of  reason ;  everything  else  is  morally 


30     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

worthless.  This  does  not  mean  that  he  condemns 
pity  and  love  as  such.  He  simply  asserts  that 
since  they  involve  no  attitude  whether  of  obedience 
or  rebellion  to  the  law  of  reason,  the  actions  to 
which  they  lead  have  no  more  moral  quality  than 
eating  at  the  promptings  of  hunger. 

This  view,  though  familiar  enough  to  the  pro- 
fessional moralist,  is  so  remote,  I  believe,  from 
any  conception  that  would  spontaneously  suggest 
itself  to  the  layman  that  it  appears  to  call  for 
some  elucidation. 

The  phrase  "  obedience  to  reason  "  may  mean  a 
variety  of  things,  but  for  the  typical  transcen- 
dentalist,  like  Kant  or  Fichte,  it  carries  the  im- 
agination to  a  world  higher  and  more  satisfying 
than  the  barren  heap  of  shifting  sand  upon  which 
is  cast  our  present  lot.  This  supersensible  world 
is  conceived  to  be  fundamentally  different  from 
our  own,  and  the  most  orthodox  representatives  of 
the  school  never  tire  of  reiterating  that  an  impen- 
etrable veil  hides  it  completely  from  our  eyes  as 
long  as  we  dwell  upon  this  humble  planet.  Never- 
theless, we  can  assert  that  it  has  its  own  laws  like 
every  well-ordered  state,  laws  which  its  members 
unquestioningly  and  cheerfully  obey.  Of  this  mys- 
terious realm  we,  too,  are  citizens.  For  while  our 
lower,  or  sensual,  impulses  proclaim  our  kinship 
with  the  brute,  our  rational  nature  can  only  be 
explained  as  an  emanation  from  a  higher  world. 
We,  then,  are  temporary  exiles,  or  better,  colonists 
sent  out  to  reclaim  certain  portions  of  the  material 


Transcendentalism  3 1 

universe  from  the  rule  of  night  and  chaos.  Being 
citizens  of  such  a  commonwealth  we  are  bound  to 
obey  its  laws,  not  because  they  are  rules  for  attain- 
ing the  most  satisfactory  life  during  the  few  short 
days  of  our  mission  here,  but  simply  because  they 
are  the  laws  of  the  fatherland,  and  disobedience 
reduces  man  to  the  level  of  the  animal,  the  native 
inhabitant  of  this  world.  So  a  Greek,  living  for  a 
time  among  a  barbarian  people,  might  refuse  to 
bend  the  knee  before  a  Persian  despot's  throne, 
because  it  is  contrary  to  the  custom  of  his  native 
city  for  a  free  man  to  prostrate  himself  before  a 
mere  fellow-being.  Or  he  might  restrain  himself 
in  a  fit  of  passion  from  killing  his  slave,  not  from 
any  motive  of  humanity,  but  solely  from  a  con- 
sideration of  the  kind  of  conduct  which  in  his 
far-away  home  is  considered  becoming  in  a  Greek 
citizen.  In  like  manner,  the  sojourner  in  this 
world  must  obey  the  laws  of  the  land  to  which  he 
really  belongs,  or  lose  his  title  to  citizenship,  with 
the  dignity  thereto  appertaining.  The  funda- 
mental moral  motive  is  therefore  loyalty,  born 
of  reverence,  to  the  laws  of  an  invisible  state. 

Morality  thus  has  primarily  and  essentially  noth- 
ing to  do  with  this  transitory  life  of  ours  and  its 
petty  needs  and  interests.  If  the  course  of  action 
which  the  supersensible  law  commands  happens 
to  coincide  with  the  demands  of  mundane  welfare, 
or  if  it  turns  out  to  be  the  fruit  into  which  beauty 
and  strength  of  character  naturally  ripen,  such  an 
outcome  is  treated  as  a  mere  matter  of  chance,  or 


32     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

at  best  a  pre-established  harmony.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  this  higher  law  conflicts  at  any  point  with 
the  requirements  of  human  welfare,  the  latter  has 
not  the  slightest  moral  claim.  Hence  the  "  Fiat 
justitia,  ruat  coelum,"  and  Kant's  dictum  that  the 
lie  of  benevolence  is  never  justifiable. 

Does  the  transcendentalist  announce  these  doc- 
trines as  conclusions  that  have  gradually  forced 
themselves  upon  his  mind,  the  significance  of  duty 
as  a  symbol  of  the  supersensuous  revealing  itself 
only  as  he  slowly  delves  into  the  depths  of  the 
moral  consciousness  ?  Of  the  ablest  and  most 
consistent  members  of  the  school  we  can  answer, 
no.  Kant,  for  instance,  never  tires  of  insisting  that 
no  one  can  be  called  upon  to  obey  a  purely  un- 
meaning command,  and  such,  he  holds,  would  be 
the  moral  imperative  if  the  mind  knew  nothing  of 
its  origin  and  import.  He  accordingly  asserts  not 
once  but  many  times  that  the  common  man  in  his 
longings  for  nobility  of  character  places  himself 
in  thought  in  an  entirely  different  order  of  things 
from  that  of  his  sensual  desires.  In  thinking  of 
himself  as  the  possessor  of  intrinsic  personal  worth, 
he  becomes  clearly  conscious  of  his  position  as  a 
member  of  a  higher  world,  the  world  of  the  pure 
intellect  or  reason.1 

Fichte's  view  is  the  same  in  principle,  though 
the  statements  of  the  master  who  had  never  been 
a  hundred  miles  from  Konigsberg   are  somewhat 

1  See  Grundlegung  zur  Metaphysik  der  Sitten,  Hartenstein 
Edition,  Vol. IV.,  p.  302;  Abbott's  translation,  p.  74. 


Transcendentalism  23 

toned  down  by  the  more  cosmopolitan  pupil.  For 
Kant  "  there  is  no  one,  not  even  the  most  con- 
summate villain,  provided  only  that  he  is  otherwise 
accustomed  to  the  use  of  reason"  (i.  e.  is  not  an 
imbecile),  that  is  blind  to  the  transcendental  sig- 
nificance of  the  moral  imperative.  Fichte,  on  the 
other  hand,  teaches  that  while  every  normally  con- 
stituted individual  is  possessed  of  this  conscious- 
ness, nevertheless  he  who  habitually  yields  to  his 
lower  impulses  may  gradually  become  oblivious  of 
his  higher  nature  till  at  length  it  is  nothing  more 
to  him  than  the  fairy  tales  of  his  childhood.  "  As 
a  man's  affections  are,  so  is  his  knowledge,"  and 
"  according  to  what  we  ourselves  are,  do  we  con- 
ceive of  man  and  his  vocation." *  Furthermore, 
a  second  cause  of  moral  myopia  is  admitted  in 
the  following  somewhat  enigmatical  statement: 
"  [Those]  who,  besides  possessing  the  natural 
proneness  to  mere  sensuous  activity  which  is  com- 
mon to  us  all,  have  also  added  to  its  power  by  the 
adoption  of  similar  habits  of  thought  .  .  .  can 
raise  themselves  above  it,  permanently  and  com- 
pletely, only  by  persistent  and  conclusive  thought ; 
otherwise,  with  the  purest  moral  intentions,  they 
would  be  continually  drawn  down  again  by  their 
understanding,  and  their  whole  being  would  re- 
main a  prolonged  and  insoluble  contradiction."2 
Taking  into  account  the  tone  of  Fichte's  writings 

1  Fichte's  Popular  Works,  translated  by  Wm.   Smith,  pp.  319 
and  355. 

2  Opus  cit.,  p.  369. 

3 


34     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

as  a  whole,  we  may  set  this  class  down  as  either 
narrow  and  obtuse,  or  as  obstinate  and  self-willed, 
or  as  warped  by  the  longing  for  forbidden  fruit. 
In  short,  the  seer  of  Jena  proclaims  that  his  de- 
scription of  the  rational  world  and  our  relation  to  it 
represents  nothing  beyond  the  most  familiar  ele- 
ments of  the  every-day  thinking  of  the  average 
man.  If  you  the  reader  fail  to  recognize  its 
counterpart  in  your  own  experience,  that  fact 
merely  proves  that  you  are  either  mentally  defec- 
tive or  morally  corrupt. 

If  we  are  to  believe  such  doctrines  as  these,  the 
virtues  of  Shakespeare's  characters  must  be  "  splen- 
did vices,"  for  no  one  of  them  betrays  any  partici- 
pation in  these  gorgeous  visions.  The  Countess, 
in  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  sends  Bertram 
out  into  the  world  rich  in  her  blessing  and  laden 
with  good  counsel;  the  Duke  of  Vienna  entrusts 
the  reins  of  government  to  Angelo  in  words  that 
bring  before  him  a  broad  and  noble  ideal  of  duty ; 
Volumnia  pleads  for  Rome  before  her  all-conquer- 
ing son  ;  Brutus  debates  long  before  striking  down 
the  friend  whom  he  loves  and  for  whose  death  he 
must  weep ;  Prospero  thrusts  back  the  thoughts  of 
vengeance  that  rise  in  his  soul;  Hamlet  covers 
himself  with  reproaches  for  inertness  of  thought 
and  deed  in  the  presence  of  obligations  the  most 
sacred  that  his  conscience  acknowledges ;  Enobar- 
bus  wrestles  with  temptation,  falls,  and  then,  over- 
whelmed with  remorse,  makes  the  only  amends 
still  remaining  in  his  power.     But  the  considera- 


Transcendentalism  25 

tions  dwelt  upon  by  each  of  these,  apostate  or  con- 
fessor, have  nothing  to  do  with  any  celestial  order, 
and  remain  exactly  what  they  are,  whether  such  an 
order  exists  or  not.  Says  Fichte  :  "  I  do  not  pursue 
the  earthly  purpose  for  its  own  sake  alone,  or  as  a 
final  aim;  but  only  because  my  true  final  aim, 
obedience  to  the  law  of  conscience,  does  not  present 
itself  to  me  in  this  world  in  any  other  shape  than 
as  the  advancement  of  this  end." *  If  any  of 
Shakespeare's  characters  cherished  such  a  senti- 
ment they  were  very  careful  to  conceal  it.  If  they 
attributed  it  to  others,  they  did  not  act  upon  their 
convictions. 

But  transcendentalism  may  be  stated  in  a  vaguer 
and  therefore  more  plausible  form.  Still  defining 
morality  as  obedience  to  reason,  and,  as  before, 
understanding  by  reason  the  faculty  of  apprehend- 
ing supermundane  laws,  it  may  be  admitted  that 
the  ultimate  source  and  authority  of  the  command 
are  not  necessarily  apparent  to  the  common  mind. 
This  is  revealed  only  to  the  student  of  Kant. 
What  the  man  on  the  street  knows  is  merely  that 
certain  actions  are  unreasonable  and  others  reason- 
able, and  that  a  being  who  possesses  reason  ought 
to  obey  reason,  this  knowledge  being  accompanied 
by  a  tendency  to  obedience.  Or,  if  he  does  not 
formulate  it  thus,  he  is  conscious  at  least  of  an  im- 
pulse to  do  certain  things  which  are  not  recom- 
mended by  any  of  the  motives  enumerated  in  the 

1  Opus  cit.,  p.  374. 


36     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

last  chapter,  and  which  de  facto  have  their  source 
in  the  commands  of  reason.  On  the  whole  the 
matter  is  represented  thus  in  the  plays  of  Schiller, 
notably  in  Wallenstein,  although  his  account  of  the 
inner  life  of  his  characters  is  too  incomplete  and 
vague  to  be  intelligible  without  the  help  of  his  sys- 
tematic writings.  While  a  transcendentalism  of 
this  stripe  is  incompatible  with  the  teachings  and 
spirit  of  Kant,  it  may  be  actually  adopted  as  a 
modification  of  his  theory. 

Does  reason  thus  denned  appear  as  a  motive  in 
Shakespeare's  works  ?  In  general,  the  term  is 
e.  g.  2  Henry  there  used  for  the  power  of  apprehend- 
IV.  IV.  i.  157.  mg  truth.  In  its  application  to  conduct, 
it  means  first  the  capacity  of  adjusting  means  to 
ends,  and  secondly  the  capacity  of  judging  cor- 
rectly as  to  the  relative  value  of  different  ends. 
The  latter  is  clearly  its  meaning  in  the  sonnet  on 
lust. 

Sonnet  129,     "Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had 
lines  6  &/  7.       Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait." 

In  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  again,  reason 
appears  as  the  power  of  correctly  estimating  values. 
Lysander,  having  under  Puck's  charm  forsaken  his 
yesterday's  love,  is  now  pursuing  the  once-despised 
Helena  with  an  urgency  and  a  violence  which  she 
cannot  understand.  In  answer  to  the  charge  of 
mocking  her,  Lysander  replies  with  the  warmth  of 
the  newly  baptized  proselyte : 


Transcendentalism  37 

"  Content  with  Hermia  !  No  ;  I  do  repent 
The   tedious  minutes  I  with   her   have 

sPent-  M.  N,  D. 

II.  ii.  111. 

The  will  of  man  is  by  his  reason  sway'd ; 

And  reason  says  you  are  the  worthier 
maid." 

The  word  judgment  is  frequently  used  e.  g.  Hamlet, 
in  the  same  sense.  ,  IIL  iv-  70* 

It  is  but  a  short  step  from  reason  as  the  critic  of 
values  to  reason  as  what  may  be  called  prudence, 
that  is,  the  impartial  regard  for  the  totality  of  our 
personal  interests.  As  such  it  appears  in  Iago's 
disquisition  to  Roderigo  on  the  power  of  the  will : 
"  If  the  balance  of  our  lives  had  not  otheiio  I. 
one  scale  of  reason  to  poise  another  of  "*•  330> 
sensuality,  the  blood  and  baseness  of  our  natures 
would  conduct  us  to  most  preposterous  conclusions  : 
but  we  have  reason  to  cool  our  raging  motions, 
our  carnal  stings,  our  unbitted  lusts."  In  the  same 
strain  Enobarbus,  while  choosing  to  follow  still 
"  the  wounded  chance  of  Antony,"  though  others 
are  deserting  the  defeated  triumvir,  a.  &,  c.  in. 
avows  "  my  reason  sits  in  the  wind  s-  36- 
against  me." 

There  are,  it  is  true,  some  cases  which  do  not 
fall  into  any  one  of  the  preceding  three  or  four 
categories.  But  the  number  is  so  small  as  abso- 
lutely to  preclude  the  hypothesis  that  reason,  in  the 
sense  in  which  transcendentalism  employs  it,  is  a 
factor  of  any  importance  in  the  great  moral  con- 


38     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

flicts  portrayed  in  Shakespeare's  dramas.  Quite 
apart  from  their  infrequency,  their  character  is 
such  as  to  afford  little  aid  and  comfort  to  the 
rationalistic  theory,  as  will  appear  upon  subjecting 
them  to  the  slightest  examination. 

Returning  to  reason  as  the  equivalent  of  pru- 
dence, it  will  be  remembered  that  its  traditional  foe 
is  that  ill-defined  group  of  emotions  and  impulses 
which  goes  under  the  name  of  the  passions.  Hence 
it  comes  about  that  action  determined  by  reason  oc- 
casionally stands  for  the  antithesis  of  action  due 
to  the  impulsion  of  passion.  Here  reason  evidently 
means  such  motives  of  whatever  sort  as  act  with- 
out the  assistance  of  any  strong  emotion,  motives, 
therefore,  which  are  most  likely  to  obtain  a  hear- 
ing in  our  calmer  hours.  An  example  of  this 
usage  will  be  found  in  Macbeth,  Act  II.,  scene  iii., 
lines  116,  117 : 

"  The  expedition  of  my  violent  love 
Outrun  the  pauser,  reason." 

Among  the  motives  that  are  capable  of  acting 
without  the  spur  of  intense  feeling  must  be  counted 
altruism,  the  regard  for  another's  welfare.  In  at 
least  two  passages  reason  seems  to  be  used  for 
such  an  altruism.  The  first  occurs  in  Julius 
Caesar,  where  Brutus,  dissecting  the  character  of 
Caesar  says : 

j.  c.  "  I  have  not  known  when  his  affections 

n-  *•  2°'  [passions]  sway'd 

More  than  his  reason." 


Transcendentalism  39 

The  second  will  be  found  in  the  Tempest.  Pros- 
pero  has  his  enemies  in  his  power,  but  overcomes 
the  temptation  to  avenge  himself  with  the  thought, 

"Though  with  their  high   wrongs   I   am 

struck  to  the  quick, 
Yet  with  my  nobler  reason  'gainst  my    ^e™PeBt  v- 

fury 
Do  I  take  part." 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  both  these 
utterances  are  somewhat  ambiguous. 

Only  a  single  passage  now  remains  to  be  ex- 
plained. In  this  the  word  is  used  as  a  generic 
name  for  the  higher  faculties  of  the  mind,  intellect- 
ual and  volitional,  as  opposed  to  the  sense  capacities 
which  we  possess  in  common  with  the  brute. 
Hamlet,  comparing  his  own  apathy  in  the  presence 
of  solemn  obligations  with  the  craving  for  activity 
which  has  drawn  Fortinbras  and  his  Norwegian  fol- 
lowers to  fight  for  a  straw  upon  the  plains  of 
Poland,  exclaims  in  one  of  his  characteristic  bursts 
of  futile  emotion : 

"  What  is  a  man, 
If  his  chief  good  and  market  of  his  time 
Be   but  to  sleep  and  feed  ?     A  beast,  no 

more. 
Sure,  he   that  made   us   with  such  large    Hamlet  IV. 

discourse,  iv.  33. 

Looking  before  and  after,  gave  us  not 
That  capability  and  god-like  reason 
To  fust  in  us  unused." 


4-0     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

That  this  avowal  of  enthusiasm  for  the  exercise  of 
mental  power,  and  of  contempt  for  the  life  of  sloth 
and  sensual  indulgence  has  no  necessary  connec- 
tion with  the  speculations  of  transcendentalism, 
will  be  clear,  I  believe,  from  the  preceding  chapter. 

Our  conclusion  can  be  summarized  in  a  few  words. 
The  theory  that  defines  morality  as  obedience  to 
reason,  where  reason  means  the  faculty  of  appre- 
hending supermundane  laws,  may  be  given  the 
name  of  rationalism.  Rationalism  thus  defined  is 
as  little  in  consonance  with  the  spirit  of  Shake- 
speare's plays  as  is  the  highly  articulated  Kantian- 
ism of  which  it  is  the  pale  reflection. 

A  third  form  of  transcendentalism  remains  to 
claim  our  attention.  It  finds  the  source  of  the  moral 
life,  not  in  respect  for  a  law,  but  in  loyalty  to  a  law- 
giver. Such  a  view  may,  perhaps,  be  called  authori- 
tism.  It  has  been  held  in  somewhat  varying  forms, 
its  most  prominent  representatives  being  the  so- 
called  intuitionists.  In  examining  this  doctrine 
we  must  understand  exactly  what  it  affirms.  No 
sane  man  doubts  that  for  many  persons  the  belief 
that  God  commands  veracity,  respect  for  property, 
and  much  else,  is  a  very  powerful  factor  in  secur- 
ing conformity  to  the  requirements  of  morality ; 
just  as  is  the  command  of  the  sovereign  and  the 
parent,  in  the  state  and  the  family,  respectively. 
The  real  questions  in  dispute,  at  least  in  our  own 
day,  are  these :  Is  loyalty  to  God  an  unanalyzable 
element  of  consciousness,  something,  therefore, 
which  is  irreducible  to  any  motive  or  combination 


Transcendentalism  41 

of  motives  as  yet  shown  to  exist  ?  Is  it  in  nature 
and  origin  absolutely  unique,  something  without  a 
parallel  among  the  other  constituents  of  the  mental 
life  ?  Finally,  is  the  loyalty  thus  conceived  the  sole 
source  of  the  consciousness  of  moral  distinctions  ? 
The  student  who  has  answered  these  questions  to 
his  own  satisfaction  has  defined  his  attitude  towards 
the  common  elements  of  the  authoritive  theories. 

Of  these  questions  the  second  can  be  despatched 
with  the  most  ease.  Beyond  controversy,  in  Shake- 
speare's world  loyalty  to  God  is  not  a  unique  senti- 
ment without  a  parallel  among  mundane  springs  of 
action.  At  every  turn  the  duty  we  owe  God  and 
that  which  we  owe  an  earthly  sovereign  are  placed 
side  by  side,  as  if  identical  in  nature.  Everywhere 
loyalty  to  the  heavenly  and  to  the  earthly  king  are 
treated  as  the  same  emotion. 

Examples  are  not  far  to  seek.  When  Norfolk 
and  Bolingbroke  are  about  to  meet  in  mortal  com- 
bat on  the  fateful  day  for  which  England  was  to 
bleed  in  the  War  of  the  Roses,  Norfolk,  standing 
armed  in  the  lists,  cries  out  in  answer  to  the 
marshal's  summons : 

"  [I]  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath  — 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth 
To  God,  my  king  and  my  succeeding  issue, 
Against  the  Duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me ; 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  this  mine    R.  .    d  „ 

arm,  I.  m.  17. 

To  prove  him,  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me." 


L.  179. 


42     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

When  King  Richard,  after  forbidding  the  combat, 
exiles  the  principals  and  compels  them  to  swear 
eternal  enmity  to  each  other,  he  summons  them  to 
take  the  oath  in  the  following  significant  language  : 

"Lay  on  our  royal  sword  your  banish'd 
hands ; 
Swear  by  the  duty  that  you  owe  to  God  — 
Our  part  therein  we  banish  with  your- 
selves — 
To  keep  the  oath  that  we  administer." 

His  meaning  is :  By  your  banishment  you  have 
ceased  to  be  English  citizens  bound  in  allegiance 
to  me ;  there  remains,  therefore,  no  anchor  for  your 
faithfulness  to  your  word  except  the  allegiance  you 
owe  to  the  Heavenly  King.  The  identity  in  nature 
of  loyalty  to  God  and  king  is  stated,  if  possible,  still 
more  explicitly  in  a  later  scene  of  the  same  play. 
Again  the  words  are  Richard's  : 

"Revolt  our  subjects?    that  we  can  not 
__  ..  ,M  mend; 

m.  11. 100.  ' 

They  break  their  faith  to  God  as  well  as 
us." 

In  Richard  II.,  then,  we  find  a  representation  of 
obligation  that  brings  before  the  mind  a  picture  of 
a  society  organized  in  the  spirit  of  feudalism.  At 
the  bottom  is  the  serf  or  retainer,  as  the  case  may 
be ;  then  the  over-lord ;  then  the  king ;  ascending 
one  step  higher  there  is  God,  in  a  perfectly  literal 
Bichard  in.  sense  "  the  great  King  of  kings."  The 
1.  iv.  200.      subject  owes  service  to  his  lord,  both 


Transcendentalism  43 

owe  service  to  their  common  king ;  all  of  these  owe 
service  to  the  omnipotent  Ruler  throned  in  regions 
inaccessible  to  sense.  Whatever  may  be  the  nature 
of  the  loyalty  that  prompts  the  subject  to  submis- 
sion in  each  of  these  relations,  it  appears  to  be 
exactly  identical  throughout  the  entire  range  of 
its  activity.  The  treatment  of  loyalty  in  the  other 
plays,  including  those  of  the  later  periods,  is  only  a 
repetition  of  the  same  tale. 

Well,  so  be  it,  some  one  may  say,  admitted  that 
loyalty  to  God  is  not  different  in  kind  from  loyalty 
to  the  king,  is  loyalty  of  any  sort  reducible  to 
motives  that  we  have  already  studied  ?  Is  it  not  an 
ultimate,  unanalyzable  element  in  human  nature  r 
Consider,  he  may  urge,  the  attitude  of  the  race  in 
the  presence  of  authority.  Here  is  one  man  out  of 
the  millions  who  dwell  within  the  limits  of  the 
fatherland ;  his  commands  are  obeyed,  while  the 
attempt  of  any  one  else  to  exercise  such  control  is 
either  met  by  a  contemptuous  refusal,  or,  if  neces- 
sary, is  repelled  by  force.  Disregarding  the  influ- 
ence of  fear,  affection,  suggestion,  and  other 
well-known  forces  whose  existence  has  never  been 
doubted,  something  still  remains  to  be  explained. 
Surely  this  residual  element  is  without  a  parallel 
among  springs  of  action,  is  utterly  mysterious  and 
even  miraculous. 

It  might  seem  as  if  a  discussion  of  this,  the 
fundamental  contention  of  authoritism,  were  abso- 
lutely precluded  by  the  nature  of  our  materials. 
But  unfortunately   for  him,  the  Englishman  has 


44     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

been  driven  only  too  often  to  reflect  upon  tho 
nature  of  political  obligation.  From  the  day  when 
Bolingbroke  snatched  the  crown  from  the  hands 
of  Richard  II.  till  the  death  of  Elizabeth,  but 
two  English  monarchs,  Henry  VIII.  and  Edward 
VI.,  ruled  with  the  unquestioning  consent  of  their 
subjects.  The  others  had  to  defend  themselves 
against  rival  claimants,  many  of  whom  had  gained 
the  allegiance  of  a  powerful  faction.  Thus  the 
thinking  Englishman  found  himself  compelled  to 
formulate  as  best  he  could  his  reasons  for  feeling 
constrained  to  yield  a  subject's  obedience,  as  the 
only  way  of  determining  to  whom  the  obedience 
was  due. 

We  shall  not  be  surprised  when  we  find  these 
moral  conflicts  mirrored  in  the  pages  of  Shake- 
speare. For  through  the  greater  part  of  Elizabeth's 
reign  her  throne  rocked  on  its  foundation,  and 
was  universally  considered  even  more  insecure  than 
events  proved  it  to  be.  Her  title  rested  primarily 
upon  her  legitimate  descent  from  Henry  VIII.  But 
when  we  consider  the  grounds  upon  which  the  king 
obtained  his  first  divorce,  it  becomes  obvious  that 
either  she  or  her  predecessor,  Mary,  must  be  a 
usurper,  and  consequently  the  partisans  of  one  or 
the  other,  traitors.  No  orthodox  Roman  Catholic 
could  admit  for  an  instant  the  validity  of  the 
claim  of  Anne  Boleyn  to  be  a  lawful  wife  and 
queen ;  and  the  Protestant,  capable  of  distinguish- 
ing between  the  use  of  legal  forms  by  brute  force 
and  obedience  to  the  spirit  that  created  them,  must 


Transcendentalism  45 

have  admitted  to  himself  that  the  position  of  the 
mother  of  his  sovereign  had  been  in  reality  little 
better  than  that  of  an  acknowledged  mistress. 
Elizabeth's  second  title  rested  upon  the  will  of  her 
father ;  but  can  a  kingdom  be  disposed  of  after  the 
manner  of  a  second-best  bed  ?  This  was  a  new 
problem,  involving  a  principle  so  remote  from 
previous  usage  that,  by  common  consent,  on  the 
accession  of  James  VI.,  no  attention  was  paid  to 
the  provisions  of  that  same  will,  which  would  have 
given  the  crown  to  another  branch  of  the  family. 
Lastly,  the  third  title  was  grounded  upon  an  act  of 
Parliament.  But  can  Parliament  invest  with  a 
right  to  rule  one  who  can  urge  no  other  claim  ?  In 
early  English  history  this  question  had  been  an- 
swered in  the  affirmative  more  than  once.  Under 
the  Tudors,  however,  those  days  were  for  the  most 
part  forgotten,  and  the  generation  that  crowned 
Elizabeth's  immediate  successor  was  to  see  such 
doctrine  damned  as  heresy. 

The  intelligent  citizen  of  a  modern  monarchy 
would  base  the  obligation  to  obey  the  command  of 
a  fellow-man  upon  the  principle  that  the  kingly 
office  is  a  public  trust,  and  the  king  simply  the 
first  servant  of  the  state.  He  looks  upon  the  law 
of  hereditary  succession  as  "  nothing  more  than  an 
expedient  in  government  founded  in  wisdom  and 
tending  to  public  utility"  —  to  use  the  words  of  an 
eminent  English  judge  of  the  eighteenth  century.1 

1  Sir  Michael  Foster,  in  Taswell-Longmead,  English  Constitu- 
tional History,  p.  171,  note  5. 


46     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

With  him  the  motive  for  obedience  is,  at  its  best,  that 
enthusiasm  for  the  common  good  which  in  the  in- 
evitable cases  of  conflict  leads  to  the  subordination 
of  the  individual  will. 

At  first  sight  such  a  man  seems  to  have  no 
counterpart  in  the  Shakespearean  world.  Take,  for 
example,  the  tetralogy  that  goes  by  the  several  names 
of  Richard  II.,  first  and  second  Henry  IV.,  and 
Henry  V.1  Richard  II.  is  represented,  in  agreement 
with  the  testimony  of  history,  as  a  thoroughly  vicious 
and  at  the  same  time  lamentably  weak  ruler.  None 
of  the  functions  of  government  was  performed  prop- 
erly ;  life  was  not  safe ;  the  property  of  the  nobles 
was  pillaged,  and  the  merchants  were  oppressed  by 
means  of  forced  loans,  blanks,  and,  according  to 
the  play,  benevolences  or  "  gifts "  to  the  crown. 
In  consequence  of  these  things  Holinshed,  the 
chronicler  who  supplied  Shakespeare  with  his  facts, 
looks  upon  Richard's  deposition  as  a  righteous  act, 
and  apparently  the  public  utility  doctrine  would 
permit  no  other  attitude.  Yet  the  best  characters 
in  the  play  look  upon  Bolingbroke's  coronation  as 
a  monstrous  crime.  The  Bishop  of  Carlisle,  a  man 
of  patriotism  and  honesty,  risks  his  life  in  a  protest 
flung  into  the  teeth  of  the  newly  created  king. 
What  is  more  striking  the  leaders  of  the  rebellion, 
Northumberland  and  Bolingbroke,  admit  in  after 
years  the  immorality  of  their  course.     True,  Nor- 

1  The  view  that  these  plays  are  essentially  one  need  not  carry 
with  it  any  implications  as  to  the  dates  at  which  the  several  parts 
were  written. 


Transcendentalism  47 

thumberland's  confessions  of  guilt  appear  as  the 
product  of  his  newly  conceived  hatred  for  his  pres- 
ent master  and  of  a  desire  for  another  change. 
Nevertheless  his  expressions  of  self-reprobation  do 
not  sound  like  mere  pretexts ;  they  seem  to  repre- 
sent rather  the  outcome  of  sober  second  thought, 
clarified,  no  doubt,  by  disillusionment.  Surely  there 
can  be  no  question  of  this  fact  in  the  case  of  his 
son,  Hotspur.  And  whatever  we  may  think  of  the 
Percy  family,  nothing  can  have  a  more  genuine 
ring  than  the  dying  declaration  of  Henry  IV. : 

"  God  knows,  my  son, 
By  what  by-paths    and  indirect  crook'd 

ways 
I  met  this  crown.  2  Henry  IV. 

IV.  v.  184 

What  in  me  was  purchased    ff-'  200  ff* 
[t.  e.,  stolen], 
Falls  upon  thee  in  a  more  fairer  sort ; 
So  thou  the  garland  wear'st  successively." 

The  effect  produced  upon  the  hearer  or  reader 
by  these  confessions  is  heightened  through  the 
employment  of  contrast,  a  favorite  device  of  the 
dramatist.  The  quarrel  between  Norfolk  and  Bol- 
ingbroke,  upon  which  turns  the  plot  of  Richard  II., 
had  its  origin  in  the  murder,  or  alleged  murder, 
of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  uncle  of  both  Richard 
and  Bolingbroke.  The  agent  was  Norfolk,  but 
behind  him  was  supposed  to  have  stood  the  king 
himself.     One   of  the   earliest  scenes  of  the  play 


48     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

represents  the  good  Duke  of  York,  a  brother  of 
Gloucester,  hounded  on  by  the  widowed  duchess  to 
revenge  himself  upon  his  royal  nephew.  The 
old  man  is  far  from  insensible  to  her  appeal,  but 
his  loyalty  stands  firm  as  a  granite  cliff. 

"  God's  is  the  quarrel ;  for  God's  substitute 
Hath    caused  his   death :  the    which   if 
Richard  II.  wrongfully, 

"Let  heaven   revenge;  for   I  may  never 

lift 
An  angry  arm  against  His  minister." 

Here  we  may  see  how  the  good  man  acts  when 
the  criminal  that  wrongs  him  is  his  sovereign. 

And  yet  there  is  another  side.  The  noble  and 
enlightened  Henry  V.,  the  ideal  man  of  action, 
though  the  son  of  a  self-confessed  usurper,  has  no 
scruples  about  his  own  title  to  the  throne.  He 
knows  it  will  be  attacked,  and  he  intends  to  de- 
fend it.  It  is  only  his  weak  and  sentimental  son, 
Henry  VI.,  with  his  double  incapacity  for  seeing 
fact  and  dealing  with  fact,  that  displays  any  anxiety 
on  that  score.  Furthermore  in  King  John,  written 
apparently  about  the  same  time  as  Richard  II.,  we 
find  the  best  intellect  and  character  arrayed  on  the 
side  of  the  "  usurper." 

No  one  can  misunderstand  the  function  of  Faul- 
conbridge  in  this  play.  He  is  to  be  taken  as  the 
representative  Englishman.  Keen  of  insight,  sane 
of  judgment,  noble  in  heart  despite  his  whimsical 
outbreaks  of  self-slander,  he  clearly  stands  for  the 


Transcendentalism  49 

best  thought  and  most  scrupulous  conscientiousness 
that  the  times  could  show.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  John  is  represented  as  basing  his  claim  to  the 
crown  solely  on  the  pretence  that  Arthur,  the  sup- 
posed son  of  his  elder  brother,  Geffrey,  is  in 
reality  illegitimate.  There  is  no  element  of  histori- 
cal truth  in  this  picture,  for  England  in  the  thir- 
teenth century  was  in  fact,  as  in  name,  an  elective 
monarchy.  John's  title,  based  on  his  election  by 
Parliament,  was  consequently  all  that  he  could 
desire.  Nevertheless,  the  play,  as  we  have  it, 
knows  nothing  of  the  Parliamentary  prerogative. 
We  may  gather  from  certain  words  that  escape 
Faulconbridge  in  a  moment  of  passion,  that  he  does 
not  attach  the  slightest  value  to  the  johniv. 
story  of  Arthur's  illegitimacy.  Yet  he  m-  142-145. 
never,  for  an  instant,  considers  joining  the  French 
army  that  has  been  set  in  motion  to  restore  the 
unfortunate  young  prince  to  the  throne.  On  the 
contrary,  his  loyalty  and  devotion  to  his  master 
seem  as  great  before  Arthur's  death  as  after  the 
boy's  fatal  leap  from  the  castle  wall,  when,  accord- 
ing to  the  strictest  theory  of  primogeniture,  John 
became  the  rightful  sovereign.  Just  as  little  is  he 
influenced  by  the  wickedness  and  misgovernment 
of  the  king.  In  the  conflict  between  John  and 
the  English  barons  who,  after  the  death  of  Arthur, 
offered  the  throne  to  Louis  of  France,  on  the 
ground  of  John's  moral  unfitness  for  the  office, 
Faulconbridge  is  the  mainstay  of  the  royal  party. 
The  solution  of  these  apparent  paradoxes  is  not 


50     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

far  to  seek.  Let  us  remember  that  the  miseries 
and  the  anarchy  of  the  reign  of  Stephen  had  been 
caused  directly  by  a  struggle  over  a  disputed  suc- 
cession ;  that  the  French  Philip,  who  was  posing 
as  the  champion  of  the  "  legitimate  heir,"  Arthur, 
was  at  bottom  seeking  to  make  England  an  ap- 
panage to  a  foreign  throne ;  let  us  further  re- 
„.  ,_    „  „     member  that  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  is 

Eichard  II.  r 

iv.  i.  136-  permitted  to  see,  in  prophetic  vision,  what 
149-  was  still  fresh  in  the  minds  of  Eliza- 

beth's subjects,  the  disorders  of  the  reign  of  Henry 
IV.,  and  the  horrors  of  the  War  of  the  Roses,  an 
enormous  price  even  for  deliverance  from  the 
rule  of  a  profligate  tyrant ;  let  us  remember  these 
things  and  we  shall  see  that  to  side  with  John 
against  the  "  legitimate  heir,"  and  to  side  with  the 
despotic  Richard  against  the  stronger,  wiser,  and, 
in  reality,  nobler  Bolingbroke,  might  be  the  policy 
of  the  same  man,  one,  namely,  whose  grounds  of 
action  were  throughout  a  consideration  of  what 
was  likely  to  be  most  conducive  to  the  permanent 
welfare  of  his  country. 

The  outcome,  then,  seems  to  be  clear.  Shake- 
speare represents  civic  loyalty,  where  it  is  most  open- 
eyed  and  unselfish,  as  a  form  of  patriotism.  And 
the  principle  of  allegiance  that  is  recognized  in 
practice  by  his  noblest  and  most  intelligent  men 
is  one  which  as  formulated  by  the  theorist  would 
read :  The  right  to  the  throne  and  the  right  to 
demand  obedience  when  on  the  throne  are  neither 
inexplicable   nor  absolute ;   their  ultimate   source 


Transcendentalism  5 1 

lies  in  their  relation  to  the  public  good.  Henry 
V.  explicitly  acknowledges  the  validity  of  this 
principle.  When,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  from 
France,  he  discovers  the  plot  that  has  been  formed 
to  kill  him,  he  feels  that  the  wrong  done  him  is  in 
a  high  degree  a  personal  one,  for  one  of  the  con- 
spirators is  his  best-loved  friend.  As  a  man  he 
nevertheless  forgives  them,  and  would  gladly  spare 
their  lives.  But  as  one  called  upon  to  consider  his 
kingdom's  safety,  he  is  obliged  to  overrule  his  per- 
sonal wishes,  and  therefore  as  king,  in  Henry  v. 
the  interest  of  the  common  weal,  he  con-    IL  "•  166~ 

181 

demns  them  to  death. 

Should  it  be  urged  that  the  welfare  theory  of 
sovereignty  is,  at  most,  latent  in  the  historical  plays, 
and  that  the  language  and  actions  of  their  char- 
acters are  explicable  in  other  ways,  the  reply  can 
be  made  that  in  any  event  the  theory  is  formulated 
with  the  greatest  clearness  in  one  of  the  maturest 
products  of  the  poet's  genius. 

The  great  play  of  Coriolanus  is  not  an  attack  on 
"  the  people,"  as  is  often  imagined,  for  the  mis- 
takes and  sins  of  the  title  hero  are  far  more  serious 
than  those  set  down  to  the  account  of  the  Roman 
mob.  It  is  rather  a  study  in  the  workings  of 
political  forces.  Written  at  a  time  when  Parlia- 
ment was  awakening  from  its  long  lethargy  and 
was  beginning  to  assert  the  political  rights  of  the 
people  as  a  whole,  the  play  describes  the  beginnings 
of  the  conflict  between  the  Roman  aristocracy  and 
the  masses  which,  after  dragging  on  for  five  long 


52      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

centuries,  was  to  end  with  the  establishment  of 
Csesarism.  The  last  steps  in  this  drama  had  al- 
ready been  traced  in  Julius  Caesar,  and  Antony 
and  Cleopatra. 

At  the  moment  of  the  opening  of  Coriolanus  the 
people  have  just  won  a  notable  victory.  They  have 
obtained  their  first  bit  of  political  power  in  the 
shape  of  the  creation  of  the  tribunate.  From  first 
to  last  Coriolanus  is  the  consistent  and  bitter  op- 
ponent of  this  concession  on  the  part  of  the  patri- 
cians. His  reasons  are  stated  with  a  clearness  that 
leaves  no  room  for  misunderstanding,  a  force  with 
which  no  character  in  the  play  seems  able  to  cope, 
and  a  completeness  which  in  another  writer  would 
have  converted  the  play  into  a  didactic  treatise. 
He  fears  for  the  consequences  of  the  first  grant 
because,  extorted  as  it  is  by  force,  he  believes  it 
Cor  j  j  will  inevitably  lead  to  farther  conces- 
221  ff. ;  cf.  sions.  Then  when  this  has  grown  and 
132  ff  there  are  two  powers  in  the  state,  neither 

supreme,  he  foresees  the  destruction  of 
III.  i.  passim,  good  government,  then  anarchy,  and 
127  ff  finally,   enslavement    by   some    foreign 

power.  The  only  safety  lies  in  the  rule 
III.  i. ;  cf .  of  a  small  homogeneous  body  with  unre- 
"'  ^5Ci37      stricted    power,    wise,    provident,    and 

capable  of  leadership.  Prom  this  prin- 
ciple, and  from  this  alone,  he  deduces  the  right  to 
command  and  the  duty  to  obey. 

It  must  be  added,  however,  that  distinct  traces 
of  another  mode  of  thought  are  occasionally  dis- 


Transcendentalism  53 

coverable.  For  instance,  in  Henry  V.,  Act  I.,  we 
find  the  king  of  England,  together  with  his  legal 
and  his  moral  guides,  examining  the  claims  of  the 
House  of  Lancaster  to  the  French  throne.  The 
point  of  view  throughout  seems  to  be  that  sover- 
eignty is  a  piece  of  property  and  the  king  is  the 
owner  of  his  people.  On  this  view,  if  accepted 
without  reservation  and  worked  through  consist- 
ently, the  crown  is  like  any  other  possession  and 
carries  with  it  the  right  of  using  and  misusing. 
Whatever  limitations  are  placed  on  these  rights 
can  be  based  solely  upon  a  consideration  of  the 
interests  of  the  heirs.  For  the  subject  to  refuse 
obedience  to  a  command  is  a  wrong  of  the  same 
nature  as  if  one  person  should  seek  to  wrest  from 
another  his  land  or  his  slaves.  The  only  casuistical 
questions  that  can  arise  with  regard  to  the  right 
to  rule,  are  those  relating  to  the  conditions  of 
succession. 

It  is  easy  to  see  the  facts  which  lend  plausibility 
and  indeed  a  certain  justification  to  this  view.  The 
kingly  office  carries  with  it  great  emoluments,  and 
the  opportunity  for  earning  a  reward  for  service 
may  be  considered  a  right  as  much  as  the  undis- 
turbed possession  of  a  piece  of  property.  Do  not 
modern  law  courts  seek  to  protect  the  manufact- 
urer and  the  merchant  from  discriminations  that 
would  rob  them  of  their  customers  ?  Have  not 
the  trade  unions  issued  a  new  commandment : 
"  Thou  shalt  not  take  thy  neighbor's  job  "  ?  That 
in  applying  the  principle  to  the  relation  of  gov- 


54     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ernor  and  governed,  its  restricted  validity  should 
be  frequently  overlooked  is  only  what  might  be 
antecedently  expected.  This  attitude  towards  sov- 
ereignty, therefore,  is  but  an  exaggerated  outgrowth 
of  loyalty  to  the  institution  of  property.  Of  course 
it  may  be  asserted  that  respect  for  property,  alone 
of  all  the  elements  of  human  life,  has  its  origin 
in  motives  or  faculties  inexplicable  except  by 
reference  to  a  supersensible  world.  Such  an  asser- 
tion Shakespeare  will  not  enable  us  to  contradict, 
for  he  makes  no  attempt  to  analyze  either  the 
institution  itself  or  the  nature  of  its  claims  to  our 
allegiance.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  no 
moralist  has  had  the  temerity  to  take  such  a 
position. 

If,  then,  God  be  strictly  representable  as  the 
over-lord  of  earthly  kings,  we  have  a  clear  picture 
of  the  relation  in  which  He  stands  to  His  subjects. 
First,  His  motives  for  asserting  and  enforcing  His 
authority  become  obvious  and  intelligible.  For  if 
Henry  V.  in  his  capacity  as  king  denounces  murder 
and  treachery  because  they  are  harmful,  there  are 
no  grounds  for  supposing  that  the  great  King  of 
Richard  kings  commands,  "  thou  shalt  do  no 
m.  i.  iv.  murder "  for  any  other  reason.  Sec- 
2m'm"  ondly,  we  can  understand  the  motives 
that  prompt  Shakespeare's  characters  to  subordi- 
nate their  will  to  the  divine  commands.  Apart 
from  fear  and  love,  which  are  explicitly  referred 
to,  and  the  factor  of  suggestion,  which  is  not 
mentioned,   we    find    the    conception,    sometimes 


Transcendentalism  $$ 

formulated,  sometimes  implied,  that  God's  com- 
mandments represent  what  best  conduces  to  the 
common  good ;  perhaps,  also,  some  trace  of  the 
notion  that  we  are  God's  possession.  The  appeal 
made  by  the  former  consideration  requires  nothing 
farther  for  its  explanation  than  public  spirit  and 
a  desire  for  one's  own  sake  for  security  and  order. 
The  second  idea  gets  its  practical  effectiveness 
from  that  respect  for  property  which,  that  we 
might  not  be  carried  beyond  our  prescribed  limits, 
has  been  left  unanalyzed.  In  view  of  all  these  facts, 
loyalty,  whether  to  king  or  God,  can  urge  no  claim 
to  be  an  utterly  mysterious  and  quasi-miraculous 
motive.  It  has  its  source  in  springs  of  action  that 
are  well  understood ;  it  has  its  source  in  springs 
of  action  whose  origin  requires  no  supernatural 
explanation,  except,  indeed,  in  so  far  as  the  whole 
nature  of  man  is  divine ;  it  has  its  source,  further- 
more, in  springs  of  action  that  urge  men  to  assume 
right  relations  with  their  fellows  quite  apart  from 
any  thought  of  a  supersensible  world. 

We  have  now  the  answers  for  the  first  two  ques- 
tions raised  by  the  doctrine  of  authoritism.  The 
third  and  last,  it  may  be  remembered,  dealt  with 
the  relation  between  loyalty  and  the  consciousness 
of  moral  distinctions.  The  contention  of  the  school 
with  regard  to  this  relationship  may  be  formulated 
in  two  statements.  First,  the  apprehension  of  a 
certain  action  as  right  is  identical  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  an  obligation  to  perform  it.  Second, 
the  consciousness  of  an  obligation  to  perform  an 


$6     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

action  arises  only  in  consequence  of  a  belief  that 
it  has  been  demanded  by  God.  Right  and  wrong 
being  thus  meaningless  terms,  except  as  the  indi- 
vidual turns  his  face  towards  his  divine  King-, 
obedience  to  Him  becomes  not  a  part,  but  the 
whole  of  morality.  Accordingly  when  we  say  we 
owe  fair  dealing  or  assistance  to  our  neighbor,  the 
truth  of  the  matter  is  that  we  owe  it  to  Him  to 
treat  our  neighbor  in  that  particular  way.  In 
other  words,  the  only  actions  that  have  moral  value 
are  those  performed  from  the  motive  of  loyalty 
to  God. 

Whatever  may  be  the  objective  validity  of  the 
above  view  it  could  never  have  been  suggested  by 
a  study  of  Shakespeare's  characters.  In  their 
lives  loyalty  to  God  appears  simply  as  one  of  the 
many  elements  that  form  the  substance  of  the 
moral  life.  It  does  not  even  claim  any  sort  of  pre- 
eminence above  the  rest.  No  unprejudiced  person 
would  pretend  that  Lear  is  anything  else  than  a 
representation  of  the  conflict  between  the  powers 
of  good  and  evil  —  one  of  the  most  tremendous 
and  awe-inspiring  that  the  imagination  of  man  has 
ever  conceived.  Yet  the  attitude  of  the  nobler 
combatants  towards  crime  and  moral  heroism  alike 
is  not  determined  in  its  essentials  by  the  relation 
in  which  they  suppose  themselves  to  stand  to  any 
supersensible  power.  Cordelia,  when  she  hears 
Lear  iv.  from  Kent's  lips  the  story  of  her  father's 
iii.  31.  wrongs,   cries   out,   "  Let   pity   not   be 

believed  !  "     Albany  discloses  to  Goneril  his  feel- 


Transcendentalism  57 

ings  towards  her  and  his  opinion  of  her  outrages 
in  the  words : 

"  See  thyself,  devil ! 
Proper  deformity  seems  not  in  the  fiend        IV.  ii.  59. 
So  horrid  as  in  woman." 

These  two  utterances  taken  together  represent 
completely  the  effects  of  the  horrors  in  the  drama 
upon  the  conscience  of  those  who  saw  them.  Will 
any  one  have  the  temerity  to  assert  that  in  reality 
these  men  and  women  had  no  conscience,  that  their 
emotions  were  merely  pathological,  as  Kant  would 
call  them  ?  They  at  all  events  called  the  conflict 
raging  about  them  a  moral  conflict.  Their  emotions 
of  abhorrence  or  enthusiasm  were  what  they  under- 
stood by  sympathy  for  virtue,  reprobation  for  vice. 

"  0  tho\i  good  Kent,  how  shall  I  live  and 

work,  IV.  vii.  1. 

To  match  thy  goodness?" 

exclaims  Cordelia.  And  when  the  end  has  come, 
Albany,  now  in  supreme  control,  summons  to  his 
side  Edgar  and  Kent : 

"  You,  to  your  rights; 
With   boot,   and   such  addition   as    your 

honours 
Have   more    than   merited.      All   friends    v.  iii.  300. 

shall  taste 
The  wages  of  their  virtue,  and  all  foes 
The  cup  of  their  deservings." 

The  German  critic  Kreyssig  has  called  King  Lear 
the  drama  of  Kant's  Categorical  Imperative.     If 


58     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

by  this  is  meant  a  presentation  of  the  springs  of 
moral  life,  such  as  transcendentalism  in  any  of  its 
forms  would  recognize,  he  might  as  well  call 
Paradise  Lost  the  epic  of  Darwin's  Natural 
Selection. 

In  this  respect  King  Lear  is  an  epitome  of 
Shakespeare's  world.  Much  has  been  said  about 
the  absence  of  religious  life  in  the  plays.  The 
fact  is,  the  great  majority  of  the  leading  characters 
exhibit  in  one  way  or  another  a  belief  in  the  fun- 
damental postulates  of  religion.  On  the  other 
hand,  their  attitude  towards  God  seldom  appears 
as  a  direct  factor  in  determining  their  relation 
to  their  fellow-men.  This  statement  is  so  far 
from  holding  merely  for  the  criminal  and  the 
vicious,  that  its  most  complete  exemplification  is 
found  in  the  noblest  lives.  In  fact  in  the  Shake- 
spearean drama  but  two  virtues  are  habitually 
brought  under  the  special  protection  of  heaven: 
resistance  to  the  temptations  of  suicide  and  of 
perjury.  The  reason  for  these  exceptions  is 
obvious  :  these  temptations  are  oftentimes  at  once 
so  subtle  and  so  overwhelming  that  considerations 
of  humanity  and  honor  tend  to  crumble  before  them. 
But  even  here,  if  the  latter  are  exceptionally  strong, 
the  appeal  to  the  supersensible  is  not  needed. 

Consider  for  a  moment  the  significance  of  the 
scene  at  the  meeting  of  the  conspirators  in  Julius 
Caesar.  Cassius  has  demanded  that  they  bind 
themselves  together  with  an  oath.  To  Brutus  such 
a  proceeding  seems  a  blackening  of  their  own  char- 


Transcendentalism  59 

acters.  If  the  evils  of  the  times  and  shame  at  our 
fallen  estate  are  not  sufficient  motives,  let  us  slink, 
every  man  to  his  own  home,  and  give  up  the  attempt 
to  lead  the  life  of  free  citizens.  But  Brutus,  you 
object,  was  an  impractical  idealist.  That  is  true ; 
but  his  idealism  consisted,  so  far  as  this  particular 
case  is  concerned,  in  judging  others  by  himself. 
How  far  his  confidence  would  have  led  him  astray 
does  not  concern  us,  for  we  are  dealing  with  the 
ethical  question :  How  explain  a  Brutus  ?  not  with 
the  statistical  one :  How  many  Brutuses  are  there  ? 

The  last  contention  of  authoritism  thus  falls  to 
the  ground.  Other  actions,  we  discover,  besides 
disobedience  to  God,  are  regarded  as  wrong  in 
themselves  ;  actions  performed  without  any  thought 
of  obedience  may  be  approved  as  right. 

This  conclusion  apparently  leaves  on  our  hands  a 
serious  difficulty.  For  it  will  naturally  be  asked 
how,  on  such  a  view,  we  can  explain  that  feeling 
of  restraint  which,  when  it  appears  amid  the  stress 
of  moral  conflict,  we  call  the  sense  of  obligation. 
The  logical  consequence  of  the  preceding  analysis 
is  to  place  the  source  of  the  entire  moral  life  in 
desires.  But  a  desire  is  a  mental  state  whose 
motive  power  resides  in  the  attraction  that  is 
exercised  by  a  proposed  end.  How  can  constraint 
arise  out  of  attraction  ?  Whether  this  problem  can 
claim  a  place  in  a  study  like  the  present  will 
depend  upon  our  right  to  make  a  certain  assump- 
tion. If  we  may  believe  that  Shakespeare  described 
all  the  elementary  phenomena  of  the  moral  life,  it 


60     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

certainly  belongs  here  ;  otherwise  not.  For  the 
consciousness  of  obligation,  in  the  sense  of  a  feeling 
of  restraint,  or  indeed  in  any  other  sense,  appears 
neither  as  a  fundamental  nor  an  independent  factor 
in  any  moral  experience  that  he  describes ;  the 
forces  that  do  battle  for  the  right  seem  to  be, 
without  exception,  ideas  of  a  state,  whether  of  self 
or  another,  which  the  agent  desires  to  bring 
about.  We  are  therefore  reduced  to  two  alterna- 
tives. Either  an  important  or  perhaps  the  most  im- 
portant constituent  of  the  moral  consciousness  has 
been  ignored,  or  else  we  really  have  before  us  all 
the  fundamentals,  and  the  sense  of  restraint  is  but 
a  secondary  phenomenon  which  may  arise  out  of 
the  conflict  of  desires. 

Those  who  accept  the  latter  alternative  are 
bound  to  point  out  where  and  under  what  condi- 
tions this  feeling  arises.  That,  in  reality,  is  not 
a  difficult  task.  A  desire  will  give  rise  to  the  feel- 
ing of  restraint  when  the  actions  necessary  for  its 
realization  come  into  conflict  with  strong  passions, 
deep-seated  habits,  or  are  otherwise  disagreeable  in 
the  doing ;  when,  during  the  action  or  even  in  fac- 
ing the  possibility  of  performing  it,  we  feel  as  if  we 
were  acting  along  the  line  of  the  greatest  resist- 
ance. In  these  cases  we  shrink  back  and  at  the 
same  time  feel  ourselves  attracted  onward.  There- 
upon, alike  whether  we  press  forward  or  turn 
aside,  a  feeling  of  coercion  or  restraint  will  arise, 
and,  as  long  as  the  opposing  forces  keep  their  hold 
upon  the  attention,  will  continue. 


Transcendentalism  6 1 

An  illustration  of  this  principle  may  be  found 
in  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet's  life.  Hamlet  possesses 
a  certain  ideal  of  character  embodied  in  his  friend 
Horatio.  Its  warp  and  woof  are  loyalty  and  the 
power  to  pursue  one's  own  way  independently  alike  > 
of  every  stimulus  or  distraction  that  fortune  hap-  Of^t^C  &4 
pens  to  throw  into  the  way.     (Vide  Act  III.,  scene  -/*  j.     '  j. 

ii.,  lines  59-79.     Note  that  "just"  means  loyal.)         «_ If 

Such  loyalty,  according  to  a  code  that  Hamlet 
never  questions,  demands  the  revenge  of  his  father's 
murder.  Such  constancy  must  he  possess  if  he  is 
to  attain  success.  For  the  stab  of  a  dagger  will 
not  of  itself  suffice  ;  he  must  so  act  as  to  remain 
free  from  the  suspicion  of  selfish  motives  in  the 
eyes  of  his  mother,  his  betrothed,  and  his  country- 
men. This  involves  a  carefully  thought-out  and 
perhaps  complicated  plan  tenaciously  followed  from 
stage  to  stage,  till  his  end  is  finally  gained.  But 
it  is  just  such  a  course  of  which  temperament  and 
habit  have  made  him  incapable.  Dependent  as  he 
is  upon  stimuli  from  without  for  anything  more 
exacting  than  idle  reverie,  he  cannot  even  set 
his  mind  to  work  upon  mapping  out  a  coherent 
plan  of  procedure.  Yet  all  this  time  an  ideal 
of  strength  and  devotion  is  beckoning  him  onward. 
Hence  it  is  only  with  a  sense  of  constraint  at 
moments  intolerable  that  he  can  give  himself  up 
to  the  life  of  aimless  floating  with  the  current 
which  finally  proves  his  ruin. 

In  this  way  it  does  not  seem  difficult  to  explain 
the  feeling  of  obligation  as  rooted  and  grounded 


62     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

in  desire  or  approbation.  Whether  this  or  any 
other  account  of  the  phenomenon  ever  entered 
Shakespeare's  mind,  no  one  who  knows  what 
evidence  means  would  pretend  to  decide.  But 
assuming  always  that  his  descriptions  are  correct, 
and  at  least  in  outline  complete,  it  appears  to  be 
the  only  account  compatible  with  his  delineation 
of  the  moral  life. 

Our  study  in  moral  dynamics  leaves  in  our  hands 
a  principle  of  the  greatest  practical  importance. 
If  Shakespeare  portrays  human  life  aright,  morality 
stands  whatever  view  we  may  take  of  the  nature 
of  the  universe  or  of  the  origin  and  ultimate  des- 
tiny of  man.  Let  the  great  heart  of  things  be  what 
it  will,  we  recognize  a  duty  to  ourselves,  our  neigh- 
bor, and  the  general  weal,  and  we  have  within  us 
powers  that  respond  to  their  call.  Metaphysical 
and  theological  belief  may  strengthen  the  moral 
muscle  in  many  ways,  but  is  not  its  creator.  Nor 
in  the  completely  developed  man  would  there  be 
anything  left  for  it  to  do.  In  fact  our  study  of 
Shakespeare's  writings  ought  to  teach  us  to  reverse 
the  traditional  view  on  these  matters.  The  nature 
of  a  man's  religion,  i.  e.,  his  relations  with  God, 
depends  primarily  upon  his  character,  though 
interaction  is,  of  course,  not  excluded.  King 
Claudius,  for  instance,  was  the  pink  of  orthodoxy, 
and  even  Falstaff  believed  —  and  trembled.  But 
the  relation  of  these  men  to  God,  in  so  far  as 
He  had  any  place  in  their  lives,  was  a  mere  matter 
of   buying  and  selling.     Indeed   this   is   the  only 


Transcendentalism  63 

attitude  toward  Him  that  an  ignoble  mind  can 
take.  If,  then,  the  commands  of  the  great  King 
are  really  to  exercise  moral  restraint  of  a  high 
order,  there  must  first  exist  a  spirit  of  self-forget- 
ting service  — "  He  that  loveth  not  his  brother 
whom  he  hath  seen,  how  can  he  love  God  whom 
he  hath  not  seen  ? "  —  or  failing  this,  a  desire  for 
the  approbation  of  a  companion  mind.  Morality 
is  thus  the  creation,  not  of  religious  belief,  but  of 
ideals  without  which  religion  itself  could  arouse 
neither  reverence  nor  moral  enthusiasm. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   CRITERION  OF  RIGHT   AND  WRONG 

In  making  our  way  through  this  jungle  of  motives 
I  trust  we  have  not  forgotten  that  our  aim  was  to 
discover  the  sources  of  the  moral  judgment.  Every 
motive,  as  was  pointed  out  in  the  beginning  of 
Chapter  L,  is  a  ground  of  approval.  Accordingly 
among  the  sum  total  of  the  motives  for  the  best 
actions  must  be  found  the  grounds  upon  which  the 
agent  bases  his  moral  approval  of  such  actions. 
Taking  the  agent  as  a  representative  of  the  race, 
we  are  thus  supplied  with  valuable  material  for 
testing  the  current  theories  of  the  moral  judgment. 
The  clearest  and  most  certain  outcome  of  our 
exploration  is  a  negative  one.  Conduct  is  not 
approved,  primarily,  because  it  is  believed  to  be 
demanded  by  a  law  that  comes  from  a  supersen- 
sible order  and  that  has  no  relation  to  the  welfare 
of  human  beings  in  this  life.  But  a  positive  con- 
clusion seems  also  warranted.  Our  analysis  of 
human  activities  has  acquainted  us  with  a  class  of 
forces  which  can  be  described  as  interest  in  the 
various  forms  of  welfare.  And  we  have  found  in 
what  every  one  would  agree  to  call  the  higher 
actions  such  interests  to  be  the  dominant  motive. 
We   may   therefore   infer   that    moral   judgments 


The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong      65 

have  their  source  in  ideals  of  welfare  ;  that  con- 
duct is  an  object  of  moral  approbation  or  disap- 
probation according  to  the  relation  in  which  it 
stands  to  the  well-being  of  self  and  others.  The 
theory  that  thus  emerges  may  be  called  idealism  or 
eudaemonism. 

Two  easily  distinguishable  grounds  of  approval 
have  also  been  discovered.  Kent,  we  remember, 
declares  that  his  motive  for  interposing  between 
Cordelia  and  the  wrath  of  her  father  is  the  latter's 
safety.  This  evidently  signifies  that  he  approves 
the  action  in  question  because  of  its  conduciveness 
to  an  end  lying  outside  of  itself,  namely,  Lear's 
welfare.  Accordingly  we  seem  entitled  to  assert 
the  existence  of  moral  judgments  in  which  con- 
duct is  pronounced  right  because  a  means  to  wel- 
fare. Such  judgments  may  be  called  utilitarian. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  point  of  view  in  Volum- 
nia's  appeal  to  Coriolanus  to  spare  his  native  city 
is  of  an  entirely  different  nature. 

"Thou  hast  affected   the  fine  strains   of 

honour, 

To  imitate  the  graces  of  the  gods. 

Coriolanus  V. 
'  *  iii.  149. 

Think'st  thou  it  honourable  for  a  noble 

man 

Still  [always]  to  remember  wrongs  ?  " 

The  ground  for  approving  forgiveness  of  enemies 
is  that  forgiveness  is  admirable.  Here  we  seem  to 
have  a  second  variety  of  the  moral  judgment,  in 

5 


66     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

which  conduct  is  pronounced  right  quite  apart 
from  any  thoughts  of  its  ulterior  effects,  simply 
because  of  its  own  intrinsic  excellence.  Judg- 
ments based  upon  admiration  for  beauty  in  the 
world  of  conduct,  and  immediate  antipathy  for 
the  ugly,  the  base,  and  the  vile,  may  be  called 
sesthetic. 

Our  confidence  in  the  validity  of  these  conclu- 
sions will  be  strengthened  by  a  study  of  those 
cases  where  circumstances  have  compelled  an  ex- 
plicit formulation  of  the  reasons  for  which  an 
action  is  pronounced  right  or  wrong.  I  pass  over 
such  scenes  as  the  night  in  the  garden,  when 
Brutus  justifies  the  assassination  of  his  best 
friend  on  the  ground  that  one  must 

"  Think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg 
II  i  32  Which,  hatch' d,  would,  as  his  kind,  grow 

mischievous." 

No  one  would  care  to  base  a  theory  on  passages  of 
this  kind,  because  they  are  too  isolated.  Two 
varieties  of  judgments,  however,  recur  so  fre- 
quently in  the  same  form  that  of  their  nature  and 
significance  there  can  be  no  reasonable  doubt.  The 
first  of  these  is  the  attitude  assumed  towards  pun- 
ishment for  crime  ;  the  second,  the  approval  of  the 
"  forced  lie." 

The  casuistry  of  punishment  can  be  disposed 
of  in  a  few  words.  Isabella,  interceding  for  her 
brother's  life,  pleads,  when  argument  proves  un- 
availing, "  Yet  show  some  pity."    Angelo  replies  : 


The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong      67 

"  I  show  it  most  of  all  when  I  show  jus- 
tice; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know,  n"  »  99' 

"Which  a  dismiss'd  offence  would  after 
gall." 

On  precisely  this  ground,  with  explicit  disavowal 
of  any  other  justification,  Henry  V.  condemns  to 
death  the  noblemen  who  had  plotted  to  Henry  v.  11. 
kill  him.  Not  the  clamors  of  revenge,  "•  174-177. 
not  the  demands  of  some  abstract  conception  of 
justice,  but  the  requirements  of  the  public  good, 
this  it  is,  in  his  view,  that  justifies  the  state  in 
bringing  evil  upon  the  evil-doer. 

The  principle  that  right  and  wrong  are  deter- 
mined by  a  consideration  of  the  demands  of  the 
welfare  of  those  directly  and  indirectly  affected, 
appears  likewise  in  the  treatment  of  veracity. 
Isabella,  suing  for  the  life  of  her  brother  before 
the  deputy  Angelo,  in  the  supposed  absence  of  the 
reigning  duke,  has  been  offered  the  boon  she  begs, 
on  condition  that  she  yield  herself  to  his  will. 
Never  for  an  instant  does  she  think  of  consenting, 
and  Claudio  seems  to  be  lost.  But  the  omniscient 
friar,  who  later  proves  to  be  the  duke  in  disguise, 
evolves  a  well-contrived  plan  for  the  young  man's 
rescue.  He  seeks  out  Isabella  and  proposes  that 
she  appear  to  yield,  and  then  send  in  her  stead  to 
the  place  assigned  Angelo's  betrothed,  Mariana  of 
the  moated  grange.  This  unfortunate  woman  had 
long  ago  been  heartlessly  abandoned  by  the  deputy, 
but   with  the  tenacity  of  her  sex  she  had  never 


68     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ceased  to  love  him.  "  By  this,"  explains  the  friar, 
"  is   your   brother   saved,  your  honour  untainted, 

the  poor  Mariana  advantaged,  and  the 
^•f°r^3      corrupt  deputy  scaled.  .  .  .  If  you  think 

well  to  carry  this  as  you  may,  the  double- 
ness  of  the  benefit  defends  the  deceit  from  reproof." 
There  is  not  a  moment's  hesitation.  "  The  image 
of  it  gives  me  content  already,"  cries  Isabella,  and 
prepares  herself  for  her  part. 

The  farther  task  of  unmasking  Angelo  necessi- 
tates more  lies,  and  here,  the  stakes  not  being  so 
great,  the  protests  of  the  antipathetic  emotions 
make  themselves  heard. 

Isabella.      To   speak   so   indirectly  I   am 
loath : 
IV.  vi.  1.        I  would  say  the  truth ;    .  .  . 

.  .  .  Yet  I  am  advised  to  do  it ; 
He  says,  to  veil  full  purpose. 

Nevertheless,  her  loathness  does  not  prevent  her 
from  carrying  out  to  the  letter  the  instructions 
that  she  has  been  given.  In  the  presence  of  the 
duke,  who  has  resumed  his  state,  the  dignitaries 
of  the  city,  and  the  people  who  have  thronged  to 
witness  the  entry  of  their  ruler,  she  deliberately 
asserts  that  upon  the  deputy's  demand  she  allowed 
her  sisterly  compassion  to  confute  her  honor.  The 
significance  of  these  scenes  lies  in  the  fact  that 
Isabella  is  no  weak  or  compliant  mind.  She  is  a 
woman  in  whom  purity  of  purpose  is  the  funda- 
mental  necessity   of   life ;   a  woman   whose   con- 


The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong      69 

science  is  so  sensitive  and  withal  so  powerful  that  she 
seems  to  the  world  "  a  thing  ensky'd  and  sainted." 
Some  persons  make  a  difference  between  lying 
for  their  own  benefit  and  that  of  others ;  not  so 
Shakespeare's  characters.  Think,  for  instance,  of 
the  heroine  of  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  a  char- 
acter superior  in  beauty  even  to  the  statuesque 
Isabella.  Fleeing  in  the  guise  of  a  pilgrim  from 
France  to  Italy,  in  order  that  the  husband  who 
hates  her  may  be  at  liberty  to  return  to  his  home, 
she  reaches  Florence  as  evening  is  about  to  fall. 
She  finds  the  people  of  the  city  congregated  out- 
side the  walls  watching  the  triumphal  entry  of 
their  army,  just  returned  from  a  campaign  against 
Siena.  Among  the  crowd  is  the  landlady  of  an 
inn  where  pilgrims  were  wont  to  lodge.  With  an 
eye  to  her  professional  duties  this  good  woman 
accosts  Helena  and  engages  her  to  remain  all 
night  at  her  house.  Thereupon  the  usual  shower 
of  questions  begins : 

Widow.     You  came,  I  think,  from  France  ? 
Helena.  I  did  so. 

Widow.     Here  you  shall  see  a  countryman 

of  yours 
That  has  done  worthy  service.         All 's  Well 
Helena.  His  name,  I  pray  you.    In-  v-  49- 

Diana.     The  Count  Rousillon:  know  you 

such  a  one  ? 
Helena.    But  by  the  ear,  that  hears  most 

nobly  of  him : 
His  face  I  know  not. 


70     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Of  course  Helena  could  not  reveal  what  that  name, 
so  idly  spoken,  meant  to  her.  She  could  not  be 
expected  to  tell  what  might  lead  to  the  discovery 
that  the  Count  Rousillon  was  her  husband.  But 
had  she  been  a  stickler  for  veracity,  after  Kant's 
own  heart,  she  would  either  have  refused  to  enter 
upon  a  course  which  was,  itself,  a  continuous  piece 
of  deception,  or,  if  she  could  succeed  in  making  a 
distinction  between  the  spoken  and  the  acted  lie, 
she  would  have  from  the  first  resolved  to  choose 
silence  where  the  truth  would  mean  the  defeat  of 
her  purpose.  To  be  sure,  such  a  procedure  might 
in  this  case  have  aroused  a  curiosity  as  dangerous 
as  a  complete  avowal ;  but  then,  what  of  it  ?  If  we, 
as  rational  beings,  are  under  obligation  to  make 
our  words  a  reflection  of  our  thoughts,  regardless 
of  consequences,  then  must  she  submit  to  discovery. 
Helena,  however,  has  other  ideas  of  duty.  Too  high- 
minded  to  shuffle  or  equivocate,  she  deliberately 
makes  a  statement  that  she  knows  is  completely 
false.  Like  Imogen  in  Cymbeline,  she  evidently 
believes 

"  If  I  do  lie  and  do 
Cymbeline      No  harm   by  it,  though  the  gods  hear,  I 
IV.  ii.  377.  hope 

They  '11  pardon  it." 

Only  Helena's  conscience  demands  no  excuses. 

In  the  entire  range  of  Shakespeare's  plays  there 
is  but  a  single  record  of  a  genuine  conflict  between 
the  impulse  to  speak  the  truth,  at  whatever  cost, 


The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong      71 

and  the  desire  to  dissemble  for  what,  apart  from 
the  deception,  would  be  recognized  as  a  worthy 
purpose.  Coriolanus,  having  ruined  his  cause  with 
the  people  by  his  plainness  of  speech,  is  coriolanus 
urged  by  his  friends  to  return  to  the  IIL  "• 
Forum  and  disown  his  insulting  epithets.  At 
first  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  consent.  But  the 
ground  of  his  refusal  is  no  more  an  objection  to 
deceit  as  such,  than  it  is  a  regard  for  the  social 
value  of  veracity.  It  is  solely  the  aversion  of 
the  proud  patrician  to  the  humiliation  of  bend- 
ing his  uncovered  head  before  the  despised  mob,  of 
admitting  to  himself  and  to  them  that  he  dare  not 
say  what  he  pleases.  His  mother  understands  him 
perfectly.  Determined  that  he  shall  yield,  her  last 
move  is  to  appeal  to  his  love  for  her,  the  appeal 
that  had  never  failed.     If  lie  will  be  deaf  to  that, 

"  Come  all  to  ruin  ;  let 
Thy  mother  rather  feel  thy  pride  than  fear 
Thy  dangerous  stoutness,  for  I  mock  at 

death  HI.  ii.  125. 

With  as  big  heart  as  thou.     Do  as  thou  list. 
Thy  valiantness  was  mine,  thou  suck'dst  it 

from  me, 
But  owe  thy  pride  thyself." 

Coriolanus  has  within  him  the  spirit  of  the  Spartan 
prisoners  who,  rather  than  bear  the  name  of  slaves, 
took  their  lives.  Like  the  mediaeval  knight,  the 
lie  was  disgraceful  in  his  eyes  primarily,  if  not 
solely,  because  the  sign  of  a  cowardly  spirit. 


72     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Whether  the  lies  of  Isabella  and  Helena  were 
really  justifiable  it  would  be  quite  irrelevant  to  my 
present  purpose  to  inquire.  What  I  desire  to  show 
is  the  manner  in  which  many  minds,  and  those 
often  of  the  purest  intentions,  deal  with  the  prob- 
lem when  it  is  forced  upon  them.  The  preceding 
sketch  shows  that  at  least  a  portion  of  Shake- 
speare's world,  a  portion  including  some  of  its  high- 
est representatives,  more  or  less  clearly  conceive 
the  obligation  to  veracity  as  dependent  upon  the 
needs  of  social  life. 

On  the  other  hand,  Shakespeare  was,  of  course, 
well  aware  that  these  questions  are  often  decided 
by  other  criteria,  although  for  some  reason,  per- 
haps because  such  modes  of  judgment  did  not  have 
his  sympathy,  they  do  not  appear  prominently  in 
his  writings.  Nevertheless,  traces  of  them  are  not 
wholly  wanting.  Thus  as  we  have  seen,  the  duty 
of  the  state  to  requite  evil  with  evil  is  always  based 
upon  the  requirements  of  public  welfare.  In  virtue, 
apparently  of  the  same  principle,  private  punish- 
ment is  usually  condemned.  Vengeance,  however, 
is  occasionally  counted  a  sacred  duty,  as  by  Ham- 
let. Similarly  with  untruthfulness.  It  is  invaria- 
bly excused  where  it  is  supposed  to  be  harmless. 
But  we  are  occasionally  given  brief  glimpses  of 
another  attitude.  For  instance,  when  Isabella  de- 
clares, "  to  speak  so  indirectly  I  am  loath,"  her 
repugnance  does  not  seem  to  arise  from  a  compu- 
tation of  consequences. 

It  is  such  immediate  judgments  as  these  —  naively 


The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong      73 

supposed  to  be  common  to  all  men,  or  at  least  to 
all  good  and  intelligent  men  —  that  have  enabled 
non-eudsemouistic  theories  to  assert  the  absence 
of  all  essential  relation  between  morality  and  mun- 
dane good.  Intuitionism,  which  it  will  be  remem- 
bered is  a  form  of  transcendentalism,  goes  still 
farther.  It  interprets  the  stirrings  of  resentment, 
the  antipathy  to  treachery  and  sensuality,  the 
warming  of  the  heart  at  the  spectacle  of  courage, 
as  quasi-miraculous  intimations  from  a  supersen- 
sible world,  specific  directions  or  commands  as  to 
the  manner  in  which  the  citizens  of  that  world 
ought  to  comport  themselves  during  their  enforced 
sojourn  in  Vanity  Pair.  But  just  as  our  study  of 
casuistry  has  shown  that  not  all  good  and  intelli- 
gent persons  regard  these  "  intimations "  as  ab- 
solutely binding,  so  our  study  of  motives  should 
have  taught  us  that  even  in  those  whom  they  most 
completely  dominate  they  exist  in  the  form  of 
ideals.  When  there  is  an  immediate  demand  that 
the  wicked  be  punished,  it  is  due  to  the  desire  that 
the  object  of  our  indignation  shall  suffer ;  when 
there  is  an  unrerlective  horror  of  the  lie,  loyalty  to 
truth  means  purity  of  character ;  when  Hamlet 
asks 

"  Whether    'tis    nobler    in  the    mind   to 

suffer 
The   slings   and  arrows   of    outrageous    Hamiet 

fortune,  III.  i.  56. 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them  ?  " 


74     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

there  stands  before  his  inner  eye  the  ideal  of  a 
strong  immovable  will.  Where  a  single  ideal  rules 
in  its  own  field  without  a  rival,  what  it  demands 
will  be  called  right.  Where  no  one  is  supreme, 
doubt  and  conflict  must  arise,  and  the  outcome 
will  be  determined  —  whether  we  are  distinctly 
aware  of  it  or  not  —  by  our  view  of  the  relative 
importance  of  the  interests  at  stake.  Indeed  one 
of  the  most  far-reaching  single  explanations  of  the 
diversity  of  moral  judgments  is  found  in  just  this 
difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  relative  value  of  in- 
compatible ends. 

The  assertion  that  our  actual  moral  judgments 
are  invariably  determined  by  some  conception  of 
welfare  may  seem  to  be  audacious  in  the  face  of  the 
explicit  denials  of  a  large  body  of  non-eudaemonis- 
tic  writers.  Does  not  the  transcendentalist,  it  will 
be  asked,  describe  the  workings  of  at  least  his  own 
moral  consciousness  ?  Did  not  Kant  and  Fichte 
get  their  moral  code  from  sources  absolutely  unre- 
lated to  their  desires  and  aversions  ?  The  solu- 
tion of  this  difficulty  is  found  in  the  difference 
that  may  exist  between  what  we  believe  and  what 
we  believe  we  believe ;  or,  as  Mr.  Bosanquet  has 
phrased  it,1  between  moral  ideas  and  ideas  about 
morality. 

Unfortunately  for  the  progress  of  ethics  the  gen- 
eral tendency  has  been  for  the  philosopher  to  make 

1  International  Journal  of  Ethics,  I.,  86  ff.  Keprinted  in  Civi- 
lization of  Christendom,  p.  178  ff. 


The  Criterion  of  Right  and  Wrong      75 

his  doctrines  too  exclusively  a  mere  reflection  of 
the  more  salient  features  of  his  own  moral  experi- 
ence, to  the  neglect  of  much  he  might  have  learned 
from  the  inner  life  of  his  fellow-men.  But  even 
where  self  has  been  the  most  exclusive  object  of 
study,  an  almost  incredible  divergence  between  the 
standards  actually  used  and  the  account  offered  of 
these  standards  is  demonstrable.  Of  course  this 
assertion  cannot  be  proved  here  for  the  more  elabo- 
rate doctrines  of  modern  philosophy,  but  the  brief- 
est study  of  the  ethical  theories  alluded  to  by 
Shakespeare's  characters  will  show  what  is  possible 
in  that  direction. 

Of  the  three  or  four  of  these  theories  the  most 
popular  is  that  which  defines  right  as  agreement 
with  the  intentions  of  nature.  Ever  since  this 
curious  doctrine  was  explicitly  formulated  by  the 
Greek  sophist,  Hippias,  about  four  hundred  years 
before  Christ,  it  has  maintained  a  place  in  the  lan- 
guage and  perhaps  the  thought  of  men.  The 
demand  for  a  "  life  according  to  nature  "  and  the 
doctrine  of  "  natural  rights  "  represent  merely  two 
of  its  many  forms.  Among  Shakespeare's  people  the 
theory  comes  to  light  in  such  phrases  as  t.  and  c.  n. 
"  Nature  craves  all  dues  be  render'd  to  **.  173. 
their  owners,"  revenge,  "  that  food  which  Timon  v. 
nature  loathes,"  and  in  the  words  with  iv-  32> 
which  the  English  ambassador  demands  from  the 
King  of  France  the  surrender  of  his  title  and  his 
lands.     The  king,  he  announces,  wills 


j 6     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

"  That  you  divest  yourself,  and  lay  apart 
The   borrow'd   glories   that  by   gift   of 
Henry  V.  heaven, 

By  law  of  nature  and  of  nations,  'long 
To  him  and  to  his  heirs." 


II.  iv.  77. 


In  vain,  however,  do  we  seek  for  an  instance  in 
which  Henry  V.  or  any  one  else  consults  the  "  in- 
tentions of  nature  "  with  regard  to  matters  whose 
legitimacy  he  has  no  other  ground  to  question.  One 
of  the  most  evident  intentions  of  nature  is  that  the 
masculine  half  of  the  race  should  be  distinguished 
from  the  better  half  by  the  presence  of  a  beard ; 
but  the  whim  having  fastened  itself  upon  the  men 
of  Europe  to  assign  that  function  to  short  hair,  we 
shave  and  have  our  hair  cut  in  calm  indifference  to 
what  "  nature  craves."  Shakespeare's  men  seem 
to  have  felt  no  more  qualms  on  the  subject  than 
we  do.  So  far  may  our  formulas  for  our  judg- 
ments be  removed  from  the  veritable  grounds  on 
which  they  are  based. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  NATURE  OF  THE  GOOD 

The  foundations  of  the  moral  world,  we  have 
learned,  are  laid  in  the  desire  for  the  welfare  of 
self  and  others.  But  the  term  welfare  is  as  vague 
as  an  aphorism  from  Meister  Eckhart,  and  the 
moralist  is  bound  to  make  it  more  definite.  With- 
out some  conception  of  its  meaning  we  could  not 
form  the  simplest  decision.  Without  an  exact  for- 
mula we  may  be  left  stranded  at  a  critical  period 
in  our  career  upon  the  sands  of  doubt  and  hesita- 
tion, or  we  may  be  driven  from  our  course  by  the 
blind  forces  of  temperament  or  swept  away  by  some 
current  of  education  or  fashion.  Isabella,  for  in- 
stance, hates  a  lie ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  de- 
sires her  brother's  life.  Of  two  goods  the  world 
has  room  for  but  one.  Let  her  choice  fall  as  it 
may,  it  must  assume  the  truth  of  some  theory  of 
values.  To  be  sure,  a  formula  for  the  good  cannot 
by  itself  serve  as  a  pilot  to  guide  us  through  the 
intricacies  of  casuistry,  but,  supplemented  by  a 
correct  view  of  the  relation  that  should  be  main- 
tained between  the  pursuit  of  individual  good  and 
the  good  of  others,  it  is  a  chart  to  tell  us  in  what 
direction  our  harbor  lies. 


78      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

The  good  (bonum)  means,  of  course,  that  which  is 
desirable  or  worth  having.  In  ethical  discussions, 
unless  the  contrary  is  expressly  stated,  it  denotes 
that  which  is  desirable  not  as  a  means  to  an  end, 
but  as  an  end  in  itself.  Among  the  prominent 
claimants  for  the  honor  of  occupying  this  position 
are  pleasure,  activity,  breadth  and  variety  of  experi- 
ence,1 power,  the  beautiful,  knowledge,  virtue,  and 
the  development  of  our  faculties.  The  first  and 
the  last  are  the  two  most  prominent  candidates,  the 
last  under  the  name  of  self-realization  having  been 
for  a  considerable  period  the  favorite  in  the  most 
exclusive  philosophical  circles.  And  if  within  the 
last  few  years  its  popularity  has  suffered  something 
of  a  decline,  it  can  still,  like  a  retired  political 
"  sage,"  count  upon  the  devoted  loyalty  of  a  faith- 
ful few  and  the  Platonic  veneration  of  a  multitude 
of  former  worshipers. 

At  the  very  outset  of  any  inquiry  into  the  nature 
of  the  good  a  formidable  difficulty  arises.  What 
is  meant  by  the  term  valuable  ?  It  has  often  been 
thought  sufficient  to  answer :  That  is  valuable 
which  is  desired ;  that  is  intrinsically  valuable 
which  is  desired  for  its  own  sake.  This  definition 
cannot  be  called  false,  for  somewhere  within  the 
circle  of  the  desired  the  good  must  lie.  But 
whether  it  is  adequate  is  quite  another  matter. 
For  reasons   which   will   appear   in  their   place  I 

1  Cf.  Faust :  What  all  mankind  of  pain  and  of  enjoyment 

May  taste,  with  them  to  taste  be  my  employment. 
Faust,  part  1,  Act  II.,  scene  vi.     Translation  of  J.  S.  Blackie. 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  79 

shall  not,  however,  follow  up  this  interesting  and 
important  question.  The  majority  of  the  investi- 
gators in  this  field  have  contented  themselves  with 
presenting  a  formula  which  they  claim  will  cover 
all  the  ultimate  objects  of  desire.  The  limits  of 
our  subject  matter  will  restrict  us  to  an  examina- 
tion of  certain  of  these  conclusions. 

If  by  self-realization  is  meant  the  developing 
and  perfecting  of  all  our  powers  and  capacities  of 
intellect,  taste,  and  will,  then  after  what  has  been 
said  in  a  previous  chapter  no  proof  is  needed  that 
it  fills  a  large  place  as  a  motive  in  the  lives  of  the 
broadest  and  most  gifted  men.  It  is  true  that  our 
study  was  confined  to  the  will.  Yet  obviously  an 
interest  in  the  development  of  all  sides  of  our 
nature  will  be  the  usual  accompaniment  of  a  scru- 
pulous care  for  the  perfection  of  any  one  of  them. 
A  Prospero,  therefore,  who  in  the  world  of  action 
takes  the  side  of  his  nobler  reason  against  his 
lower  passions  will  also  care  supremely  for  the 
bettering  of  his  mind.  And  the  frequently  ex- 
pressed ideal  of  living  above  the  brutes  will  be 
found  to  involve  a  desire,  not  merely  for  emanci- 
pation from  the  power  of  blind  and  transient  im- 
pulses, but  also  for  the  possession  of  every  capacity, 
intellectual,  emotional,  and  volitional,  that  dis- 
tinguishes man  from  the  lower  animals. 

Whether  self-realization  is  entitled  to  the  rank 
of  an  ultimate  end  is  a  question  that  we  may  waive 
for  the  moment.  However  the  answer  may  fall, 
we   may  easily    assure    ourselves    that    it    is   not 


80     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

the  only  object  of  desire,  even  in  the  highest  rep- 
resentatives of  the  race.  This  will  appear  from 
a  study  of  one  of  the  most  characteristic  features 
of  Shakespeare's  world,  namely  the  desire  for 
fame. 

To  the  rQle  played  by  this  masterful  passion 
reference  has  already  been  made.1  We  meet  it  at 
the  very  beginning  of  one  of  the  earliest  comedies : 

.'.  j  '  "Fame,  that  all  hunt  after  in  their  lives." 

From  that  time  on  there  is  scarcely  a  play  where 
the  desire  either  for  fame  or  its  brother,  good 
reputation,  is  not  an  important  factor  in  the 
working  out  of  the  plot.  Those  to  whom  it 
T.  and  c.  means  most  hold  it  "  far  more  precious- 
V.  m.  27.  dear  than  life,"  even  where  life  has 
everything  to  offer. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  closely  allied  end,  good 
reputation.  When  Bolingbroke,  who  is  one  day  to 
be  crowned  Henry  IV.,  charges  the  Duke  of  Nor- 
folk with  treason  in  the  presence  of  King  Richard 
II.,  the  accused  nobleman  demands  the  privilege 
of  clearing  himself  by  the  arbitrament  of  battle. 
Richard,  knowing  that  he  is  the  real  object  of 
JBolingbroke's  attack,  at  first  refuses  to  permit  the 
combat.  Thereupon  Norfolk  breaks  forth  in  words 
that  may  fairly  be  called  the  fundamental  article 
in  the  creed  of  chivalry : 

1  See  above  p.  15. 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  81 

"  The  purest  treasure  mortal  times  afford 
Is  spotless  reputation  :  that  away, 
Men  are  but  gilded  loam  or  painted  clay,     i^ara  u 

I.  i.  177. 
Mine  honour  is  my  life ;   both  grow  in 

one; 
Take  honour  from  me,  and  my  life  is 
done." 

To  stand  well  with  those  about  us  is  here  declared 
to  be  the  chief  end  of  man.  This  language  can- 
not be  interpreted  as  merely  the  exaggeration  of 
passion,  or  as  a  mask  of  duplicity  assumed  to  con- 
ceal the  features  of  crime.  For  what  a  man  is 
appears,  if  anywhere,  in  his  last  hours,  and  the 
dying  thought  of  some  of  Shakespeare's  noblest 
characters,  —  Antonio,  Brutus,  Hamlet,  —  concerns 
itself  with  the  portrait  they  are  to  leave  behind 
them  in  the  memory  of  men. 

The  significance  for  our  purposes  of  this  attitude 
towards  fame  and  reputation  lies  in  the  fact  that 
both  are  here  valued,  not  as  means  to  some  ulterior 
end,  but  as  ends  in  themselves.  First,  they  do 
not  derive  their  value  from  any  relation  to  self- 
realization.  This  is  obvious  from  their  very  nature. 
Self-realization  has  to  do  with  what  we  are,  or,  if 
you  prefer,  with  the  way  we  appear  to  ourselves ; 
fame  and  reputation,  with  the  way  we  appear  to 
others.  To  confound  things  so  different  is  to 
widen  your  definition  till  self-realization  means : 
Whatever  I  choose  to  consider  a  good. 

The  independence  of  these  two  ends  is,  further- 

6 


82     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

more,  demonstrable  by  examples.  One  of  the  most 
interesting  passages  to  be  found  in  the  entire  range 
of  Shakespeare's  works  is  the  controversy  between 
the  sons  of  Priam,  in  Troilus  and  Cressida.  In  the 
seventh  year  of  the  war,  the  Greeks  offered  to  de- 
part forever  without  demanding  any  indemnity  for 
their  losses,  provided  the  Trojans  would  give  up 
Helen.  The  proposition  is  brought  in  due  form 
before  a  family  council  where  at  first  all  favor  its 
acceptance,  save  Priam's  youngest  son,  Troilus, 
and  naturally  enough,  his  brother  Paris.  The  dis- 
cussion grows  heated,  Troilus  being  the  centre  of 
attack.  Finally  Hector  proceeds  to  define  his 
position  for  the  last  time.  "  The  reasons  you 
allege,"  he  says  in  reply  to  Paris  and  Troilus, 

"  do  more  conduce 
T.  and  C.        To  the  hot  passion  of  disteniper'd  blood 
II.  ii.  168.      Than  to  make  up  a  free  determination 
'Twixt  right  and  wrong." 

Then  follows  a  solemn  assertion  of  the  wickedness 
of  detaining  Helen,  concluding  in  an  elevated 
strain : 

"  These  moral  laws 
Of  nature  and  of  nations  speak  aloud 
L.  184.  To  have  her  back  return'd :  thus  to  persist 

In  doing  wrong  extenuates  not  wrong, 
But  makes  it  much  more  heavy." 

Every  one  is  accordingly  prepared  to  hear  Hector 
insist   anew   upon   the   acceptance   of   the    Greek 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  83 

proposals.     Imagine   their   surprise  when   in   the 
very  next  breath  he  continues : 

"  Hector's  opinion 
Is  this  in  way  of  truth  ;  yet  ne'ertheless, 
My  spritely  brethren,  I  propend  to  you 
In  resolution  to  keep  Helen  still,  L.  188. 

For  't  is  a  cause  that   hath  no  mean  de- 

pendance 
Upon  our  joint  and  several  dignities." 

What   can   he   mean  ?    Troilus   understands   him 
instantly  : 

"  Why,  there  you  touch'd  the  life  of  our  design  : 
Were  it  not  glory  that  we  more  affected 
Than  the  performance  of  our  heaving  spleens, 
I  would  not  wish  a  drop  of  Trojan  blood 
Spent  more  in  her  defence.     But,  worthy  Hector, 
She  is  a  theme  of  honour  and  renown, 
A  spur   to   valiant    and    magnanimous    -  -94 

deeds, 
Whose  present  courage  may  beat  down  our  foes, 
And  fame  in  time  to  come  canonize  us ; 
For,  I  presume,  brave  Hector  would  not  lose 
So  rich  advantage  of  a  promised  glory 
As  smiles  upon  the  forehead  of  this  action 
For  the  wide  world's  revenue. 

Sect.  I  am  yours, 

You  valiant  offspring  of  great  Priamus." 

Here,  then,  is  an  indubitable  instance  of  a  prefer- 
ence for  fame  before  character,  and  that  by  men 


84     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

upon  whose  idealization  Shakespeare  has  lavished 
all  the  wealth  of  his  powers. 

The  theory  of  values  here  implied  is  explicitly 
stated  (though  according  to  his  custom  never 
acted  upon)  by  Hamlet  in  the  soliloquy  after  his 
Hamlet  IV.  meeting  with  the  fame-seeking  Fortin- 
iv.  46  ff.  bras.  It  is  put  still  more  strongly 
in  Pericles.  In  this  play  the  order  of  dependence 
affirmed  by  the  perfectionist  is  deliberately  re- 
versed, and  virtue  and  wisdom  are  declared  to  be 
valuable  because  they  assure  their  possessor  an 
imperishable  dwelling-place  in  the  minds  of  men. 

Cerimon.  I  hold  it  ever, 

Virtue    and    cunning    were    endowments 
greater 
Pericles  Than     nobleness     and    riches :      careless 

m.  ii.  26.  heirs 

May  the  two  latter  darken  and  expend  ; 

But  immortality  attends  the  former, 

Making  a  man  a  god. 

Of  course  this  is  merely  Cerimon's  polite  way  of 
parrying  his  friends'  praise.  Nevertheless,  to  be 
effective,  what  he  says  cannot  seem  either  to 
speaker  or  hearers  utterly  absurd.  While,  there- 
fore, it  need  not  have  been  taken  by  any  of  them 
for  the  whole  truth,  it  must  have  seemed  valid 
to  them  as  far  as  it  went.  In  fact,  with  a  little 
care  in  selecting  one's  illustrations,  a  plausible 
argument  could  be  made  for  the  position  that 
fame,    including,    of    course,    reputation,   is    re- 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  85 

garded  in  Shakespeare's  world  as  the  sole  ultimate 
good. 

But  if  fame  is  not  desired  as  a  means  to  self- 
realization,  just  as  little  is  it  ordinarily  desired 
because  of  the  pleasure  its  attainment  promises 
to  afford.  A  test  case  is  supplied  by  Cassius,  and 
possibly  Brutus,  who  wished  for  fame  after  death, 
although  they  did  not  look  forward  to  a  life 
beyond  the  grave.  Hardly  had  Cassar  fallen  under 
the  blows  of  the  conspirators,  when  the  thought 
of  the  leaders,  beset  though  they  were  on  all  sides 
by  confusion  and  danger,  turned  as  automatically 
as  a  deflected  needle  to  the  glory  promised  them  by 
their  deed. 

Cassius.     Stoop,  then,    and  wash.     How 

many  ages  hence 
Shall  this  our  lofty  scene  be  acted  over 
In    states   unborn   and    accents    yet    un- 
known ! 

Brutus.     How   many   times   shall    Csesar    J.  C.  in. 

bleed  in  sport,  *■ 111- 

That  now  on  Pompey's  basis  lies  along 
No  worthier  than  the  dust ! 

Cassius.  So  oft  as  that  shall  be, 

So  often  shall  the  knot  of  us  be  call'd 
The  men  that  gave  their  country  liberty. 

Yet    Cassius   was   an   Epicurean,1   and    V.i.77. 
Brutus  seems  to  have  shared  with  his    iv.  in. 
brother   Stoics  of  that  day  the  belief    145- 

1  So  also  in  Plutarch. 


86     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

that  the  consciousness  of  good  and  evil  ends  with 
death.  At  least,  in  the  farewell  between  him  and 
his  friend  we  find  no  reference  to  the  possibility 
of  a  meeting  in  another  world.  Evi- 
dently their  desire  for  posthumous  fame 
was  not  aroused  by  the  idea  of  enjoying  its 
realization. 

Mighty  as  is  the  desire  for  fame,  it  may  yield 
in  potency  to  the  passion  of  love.  Othello  was 
once  altogether  such  a  one  as  Hector ;  the  free 
active  life  of  the  soldier,  with  its  promise  of  power 
and  renown,  the  preservation  of  his  reputation 
for  courage,  honor,  and  leadership,  these  were 
all  in  all  to  him.  But  the  time  came  when  Desde- 
mona  became  a  part  of  his  life.  Then  in  the 
agony  of  the  supposed  annihilation  of  her  affection, 
he  found  he  could  have  endured  the  wreck  of  his 
Othello  IV.  ambition,  yes,  even  the  scorn  of  man, 
ii.  47  ff.  better  than  the  loss  of  love.  Why  ? 
At  all  events  not  because  it  meant  loss  of  an 
important  means  of  self-realization.  The  love  of 
woman  he  had  never  expected,  but  when  Desde- 
mona  wept  at  the  story  of  the  dangers  he  had 
passed,  he  needs  must  love  her.  And  when  she 
had  become  his  wife,  his  bliss  in  possession  did 
not  arise  from  the  reflection  that  now  a  very 
important  and  hitherto  neglected  side  of  his  nature 
could  obtain  its  development,  that  his  character 
would  become  more  perfectly  rounded  and  more 
harmonious  as  time  went  on  through  the  growth 
of  latent  capacities.     No,  it  is  what  he  has,  not 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  87 

what    he   may   become   that    fills  his   soul  with 
absolute  content. 

"  If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'  Twere  now  to  be  most  happy  ;  for,  I  fear, 
My  soul  bath  her  content  so  absolute  II.  i.191. 

That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unknown  fate." 

This  brief  survey  seems  to  me  to  demonstrate 
the  existence  of  ends  which  are  pursued  for  their 
own  sakes,  alike  without  reference  to  their  power 
of  developing  faculties,  and  to  the  amount  of 
pleasure  or  freedom  from  pain  they  promise  to 
furnish.  In  view  of  the  present  state  of  ethical 
controversy,  it  seems  worth  while  to  establish 
this  principle  for  that  important  end  of  human 
endeavor,  the  good  of  others. 

"  What  is  your  will  ?  That  [Lysim-  Pericles 
achus]  have  his."  The  simple  and 
common  phenomenon  represented  in  this  brief 
dialogue  has  been  the  occasion  of  many  an  inky 
battle.  Taken  in  their  obvious  signification  its 
words  are  declared  by  some  to  stand  for  an  impos- 
sibility. When  I  act  most  "  unselfishly  "  my  will 
is  really  aiming,  they  imagine,  at  some  state  of  my- 
self that  can  be  reached  only  as  my  neighbor  at- 
tains the  object  of  his  desire.  This  state  may  then 
be  described,  according  to  taste,  either  as  sympa- 
thetic pleasure  in  another's  success,  or  as  the 
development  of  some  of  my  various  powers  or 
capacities. 


88     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

The  first  of  these  hypotheses  appears  in  a  well- 
known  Lincoln  story.  "  Mr.  Lincoln  once  remarked 
to  a  fellow-passenger  on  an  old-time  mud-coach  " 
—  so  runs  one  version  of  the  tale  —  "  that  all  men 
were  prompted  by  selfishness  in  doing  good.  His 
fellow-passenger  was  antagonizing  his  position, 
when  they  were  passing  over  a  corduroy  bridge 
that  spanned  a  slough.  As  they  crossed  this 
bridge  they  espied  an  old  razor-backed  sow  on  the 
bank  making  a  terrible  noise  because  her  pigs  had 
got  into  the  slough  and  were  in  danger  of  drown- 
ing. As  the  old  coach  began  to  climb  the  hill  Mr. 
Lincoln  called  out,  *  Driver,  can't  you  stop  just  a 
moment?'  Then  Mr.  Lincoln  jumped  out,  ran 
back,  and  lifted  the  little  pigs  out  of  the  mud  and 
water  and  placed  them  on  the  bank.  When  he 
returned,  his  companion  remarked  :  i  Now,  Abe, 
where  does  selfishness  come  in  on  this  little 
episode  ? '  '  Why,  bless  your  soul,  Ed,  that 
was  the  very  essence  of  selfishness.  I  should 
have  had  no  peace  of  mind  all  day  had  I  gone 
on  and  left  that  suffering  old  sow  worrying  over 
those  pigs.  I  did  it  to  get  peace  of  mind,  don't 
you  see  ?'  "  1 

That  Mr.  Lincoln  has  supplied  a  correct  explana- 
tion of  many  an  action  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
That  the  explanation  is  inadequate  to  account  for 
all  the  facts  is  equally  certain.  Clarence,  brother 
of   Edward   IV.  and  Richard   III.,  warned   by  a 

1  Quoted  from  the  Springfield  (111.)  Monitor,  in  the  Outlook, 
Vol.  LVI,  p.  1059. 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  89 

dream  that  the  hour  of  his  death  is  at  hand,  cries 
out  in  agony  of  soul, 

"  0    God !    if    my    deep    prayers    cannot 

appease  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  be  avenged  on  my  mis-    Richard  III. 

deeds,  L  iv- 6a 

Yet  execute  thy  wrath  in  me  alone, 
0,  spare  my  guiltless  wife  and  my  poor 

children !  " 

His  petition  is  not  for  ease  of  mind  about  his 
family,  but  for  his  family.  He  is  as  far  from 
begging  to  be  assured  of  their  welfare  as  he  is 
from  begging  to  be  allowed  to  witness  it.  The 
direct  object  of  his  desire  is  their  good.  In  fact, 
the  Lincoln  paradox  is  susceptible  of  a  very  simple 
explanation.  Unsatisfied  desire  may  become  the 
object  of  a  secondary  desire,  the  desire  to  be  rid  of 
the  desiring  state.  But  obviously  the  secondary 
desire  is  made  possible  by  the  existence  of  a 
primary  desire  with  a  different  object. 

According  to  the  second  of  the  above  mentioned 
hypotheses,  when  I  am  making  a  sacrifice  for  the 
benefit  of  another  —  as  the  untutored  mind  naively 
calls  it  —  I  am  in  reality  interested  solely  in  devel- 
oping my  own  courage,  my  power  of  enduring  pain 
or  privation,  my  sympathies,  or  some  such  thing. 
To  put  it  plainly  and  without  circumlocution,  I  am 
merely  using  my  fellow  men  as  material  on  which 
to  work  up  my  emotional  and  volitional  muscle,  a 
sort  of  moral  Swedish  horse  or  flying  trapeze.     A 


I 

90     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

man  like  Kent  becomes  in  this  view  an  excep- 
tionally determined  athlete,  bearing  the  same  rela- 
tion to  the  average  mortal  that  the  climber  of 
Alpine  peaks  does  to  the  business  man  who  gets 
all  the  exercise  he  wants  by  walking  to  and  from 
his  street-car.  This  theory  is  ruled  out  of  court, 
if  put  forward  as  an  all-sufficient  description  of 
altruistic  action,  in  case  we  can  find  an  instance 
of  a  desire  for  the  good  of  those  whose  welfare  we 
cannot  affect  by  our  actions,  and  who  therefore 
make  no  demand  upon  the  exercise  of  our  faculties. 
The  scene  just  cited  supplies  such  an  instance. 
When  a  man  who  is  looking  death  in  the  face 
prays,  "  0,  spare  my  guiltless  wife  and  my  poor 
children ! "  he  is  begging  for  that  which  can  never 
affect  the  state  of  his  moral  muscle,  one  way  or  the 
other. 

If  we  may  affirm  that  neither  pleasure  nor  self- 
realization  is  the  sole  object  of  desire,  we  must 
assert  with  equal  emphasis  that  neither  can  be  ex- 
cluded from  the  category  of  the  desired.  For  self- 
realization  Shakespeare  hardly  affords  us  the  test 
case  we  might  expect  to  have ;  but  surely  we  are 
entitled  to  infer  that  if  a  man  may  desire  for  its 
own  sake  to  present  a  certain  appearance  to  others, 
he  may  desire  in  an  exactly  similar  manner  to 
present  that  same  appearance  to  himself;  or,  in 
other  words,  if  he  may  desire  to  seem,  he  may 
desire  to  be. 

With  regard  to  pleasure  the  facts  are  really 
beyond  controversy.     The  claims  of  psychological 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  91 

hedonism  have  indeed  been  met  by  the  counter- 
claim that  pleasure  is  never  a  direct  object  of 
desire  nor  pain  of  aversion.  But  this  statement  is 
simply  an  illustration  of  the  principle  that  narrow- 
ness enkindles  narrowness.  No  one,  of  course,  ever 
desires  "  mere  pleasure,"  for  there  is  no  such  thing. 
But  to  say  we  desire  pleasure  means  that  we 
desire  a  state  because  and  in  so  far  as  it  promises 
to  be  pleasant.  Evidence  that  this  is  possible  for 
aversion  from  pain  seems  to  be  afforded  by  Othello's 
last  words  to  Desdemona  : 

"  Not  dead  ?  not  yet  quite  dead  ? 
I  that  am  cruel  am  yet  merciful ;  Othello  V. 

I   would    not   have    thee    linger    in   thy    ii.  85. 
pain." 

There  may  be  those  who  imagine  that  Othello  is 
merely  afraid  his  mercifulness  will  lose  something 
of  its  delicacy  if  he  is  not  careful  to  prevent  un- 
necessary suffering.  But  I  venture  to  affirm  that 
for  the  spectator  not  mad  with  too  much  learning 
the  tragic  power  of  these  brief  lines  lies  in  the 
assumption  that  at  the  last  supreme  moment 
Othello  desires  the  good  of  her  he  still  must  love, 
and  that  he  does  not  regard  a  prolongation  of  the 
death  agony  by  a  few  minutes  or  even  seconds  too 
trifling  a  matter  to  be  worthy  of  consideration. 

That  the  aversion  to  certain  emotional  states 
may  be  due  to  their  painfulness  is  exhibited  in  the 
plays  with  even  greater  clearness.  Constance,  the 
widow  of  King  John's  older  brother,  has  just  lost 


92     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

her  only  son,  and  is  racked  with  the  agony  of  a 
desolated  mother.  Doubtless  she  would  not  be 
free  from  her  grief  at  the  price  of  less  sensitive- 
ness ;  that  would  conflict  with  an  ideal  of  mother- 
hood which  she  could  not  cast  away.  But  if  she 
could  be  free  without  lowering  herself  in  her  own 
eyes  how  gladly  would  she  welcome  the  change. 

"I  am  not  mad:  I   would  to  heaven  I 
were ! 
For    then,    '  tis    like    I    should    forget 
myself : 
King  John         0,   if    I    could,    what    grief    should    I 
in.  iv.  48.  forget ! 

Preach   some    philosophy   to   make   me 

mad, 
And  thou  shalt  be  canonized,  cardinal." 

Shakespeare  wrote  this  as  a  young  man.  But 
in  the  maturity  of  his  powers  he  portrays  a  similar 
situation  met  in  the  same  spirit.  The  speaker  is 
the  blind  Gloucester. 

"The  king  is  mad:  how  stiff  is  my  vile 
sense, 
That  I   stand  up,  and  have  ingenious 
feeling 
Lear  IV.  Of    my  huge    sorrows !   Better  I   were 

vi.  286.  distract: 

So  should  my  thoughts  be  sever'd  from 

my  griefs, 
And  woes  by  wrong  imaginations  lose 
The  knowledge  of  themselves." 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  93 

The  conclusion  to  be  derived  from  the  foregoing 
analysis  is  that  if  good  be  defined  as  the  object  of 
desire  Shakespeare  represents  a  world  in  which  no 
one  formula  can  be  made  to  cover  the  content  of 
the  idea.  Fortinbras,  Prince  of  Norway,  risks  all 
for  glory  ;  to  another  man  reputation  is  a  bubble. 
Desdemona  would  not  have  been  such  a  woman  as 
Othello  thinks  her  for  all  the  world  ;  Emilia,  on 
the  other  hand,  while  she  would  not  choose  such  a 
course  for  a  small  matter  like  a  ring,  is  certain  she 
would  do  it  for  the  world,  and  she  knows  many 
women  like  herself.  Kent  thinks  that  death  has 
been  kind  to  Lear  : 

"  He  hates  him  much 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough    Lear  V.  iii. 

world  813- 

Stretch  him  out  longer." 

Not  so,  the  thorough-going  perfectionist  would  say. 
Lear  is  now  restored  in  mind.  Though  feeble  in 
body,  with,  at  most,  but  a  few  years  of  life  before 
him,  he  has  still  unrealized  powers  and  capacities 
which  are  capable  of  development.  That  he  has 
not  altogether  stiffened  into  the  immobility  of  age 
is  shown  by  the  fact  that,  in  the  few  weeks  of 
mingled  passion  and  madness  since  his  abdication, 
the  old  king  has  become  a  different  man.  When 
the  storm  has  cleared  we  find  a  new  light  has 
dawned  upon  his  soul,  a  light  that  the  sun  of  pros- 
perity could  never  throw.  Hence  he  has  still 
everything  to   live  for.     True,  death  has   robbed 


94     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

him  of  his  one  remaining  joy.  Drearily,  hence- 
forward, will  his  days  drag  themselves  toward 
the  inevitable  end.  But  pleasure  and  pain  are 
matters  of  no  importance.  Moreover,  Cordelia's 
death,  under  the  circumstances  in  which  it  took 
place,  may  be  expected  to  bring  out  new  and  in- 
teresting phases  of  his  character.  He  hates  him 
much  that  would  see  his  journey  towards  perfec- 
tion shortened  by  a  single  step. 

Whose  judgment  of  values  is  correct  ?  Or  is 
there  no  standard  that  applies  to  all  men  ?  Is  my 
good  simply  that  which  I  desire ;  and  when  choice  is 
necessary,  is  the  better  that  which  I  desire  more  ? 
We  remember  Hamlet's  answer  to  this  question. 
Hamlet  finds  Denmark  a  prison ;  Rosencrantz 
finds  it  otherwise. 

Hamlet.    Why,  then,  't  is  none   to   you  ; 


Hamlet  II. 

but  thinking  makes  it  so 


for  there  is  nothing  either  good  or  bad,1 
11.  255. 


But  Shakespeare,  who  can  speak  against  the 
thing  he  says,  gives  us  another  view  in  a  pas- 
sage that  may  have  been  written  about  the  same 
time.  During  the  controversy  between  the 
sons  of  Priam  already  referred  to,  the  youth- 
ful Troilus  ventures  the  same  paradox  about  a 
woman : 

U.  52°'  H*      "  What  is  auSht>  but  aS  '*  is  valued  ?  " 
1  Not  "  right  or  wrong,"  as  this  is  often  understood  to  mean. 


The  Nature  of  the  Good  95 

To  this  Hector  at  once  replies  : 

"  But  value  dwells  not  in  particular  will ; 
It  holds  his  estimate  and  dignity 
As  well  wherein  't  is  precious  of  itself 
As  in  the  prizer." 

In  other  words,  a  man's  own  preferences  are  not 
necessarily  the  sole  ultimate  standard  in  determin- 
ing his  good. 

Which  of  the  foregoing  statements  is  correct  is 
obviously  a  problem  upon  the  solution  of  which  all 
subsequent  investigation  into  the  content  of  the  good 
must  depend.  Material  bearing  directly  upon  it  is 
not,  I  think,  offered  by  Shakespeare ;  those  phases 
of  the  mental  life  that  alone  could  supply  the 
necessary  data,  he  has  not  cared  to  represent. 
While  our  results  are  thus  in  the  main  negative, 
they  are  not,  I  trust,  for  that  reason  profitless. 
We  have  discovered  that  those  psychologists  and 
moralists  are  in  error  who  describe  the  will  as 
always  directed  to  a  single  goal ;  and  we  have  dis- 
covered that,  contrary  to  the  assertion  of  various 
writers,  perfection,  pleasure,  and  the  good  of  others, 
as  well  as  much  else,  may  become  the  direct  object 
of  desire.  These  doctrines  are  not  merely  of  im- 
portance in  themselves,  they  derive  an  added  sig- 
nificance from  the  fact  that  they  represent  the 
only  results  of  the  long  controversy  about  the 
bonum  that  can  lay  any  claim  to  the  dignity  of  es- 
tablished truths.  For  they  alone,  amidst  the  clash 
of  contending  opinions,  have  been  able  to  secure 


96     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

the  allegiance  of  an  ever-increasing  proportion  of 
the  best  contemporary  authorities.  They  may 
therefore  be  looked  upon  as  the  foundation  for  all 
that  the  future  will  accomplish  in  this  field  of  in- 
vestigation. 


CHAPTER   V 
CONSCIENCE   AND  THE  CONSCIENCELESS 

If  the  great  master  of  those  who  know  human  life 
has  succeeded  in  describing  adequately  the  conflict 
within  the  will  between  the  better  and  the  worse, 
he  has  supplied  the  data  for  defining  the  funda- 
mental word  in  the  ethical  vocabulary.  Accord- 
ing to  certain  moralists,  as  we  have  seen,  conscience 
is  a  mystic  oracle  within  the  breast  through  which 
are  transmitted  to  this  lower  world  the  laws  of  a 
supersensible  commonwealth.  According  to  others, 
conscience  cannot  be  a  separate  faculty,  function- 
ing by  itself  in  some  corner  of  the  mind  ;  it  is  the 
mind  as  a  whole  regarded  as  the  source  of  moral 
judgments.  It  is  in  the  latter  way,  if  our  previous 
conclusions  are  warranted,  that  the  matter  should 
be  described  by  Shakespeare.  Whether  he  does 
in  fact  so  describe  it  may  be  determined  by  study- 
ing a  typical  representation  of  the  revival  of  moral 
sensibility. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  the  chamber  of  Queen  Ger- 
trude, in  the  castle  of  Elsinore.  Behind  the  arras 
lies  the  slain  Polonius.  Turning  away  with  un- 
concern from  the  deed  his  hand  has  just  committed, 
Hamlet  addresses  himself  to  his  trembling  mother: 

7 


98     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

"Leave  wringing  of  your  hands:  peace! 
sit  you  down, 
Hamlet  m.       ^nd  jet  me  wrmg  y0ur  heart ;  for  so  I 

shall, 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff." 

Before  them  on  the  arras  stands  the  figure  of  the 
murdered  king ;  next  to  him  the  man  that  robbed 
him  of  place,  of  love,  of  life. 

"Look   here,  upon    this    picture,   and    on 
this, 

The     counterfeit     presentment    of    two 
brothers. 

See,  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow ; 

Hyperion's  curls;  the  front  of  Jove  him- 
self; 

An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  com- 
mand ; 
L.  53.  A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 

New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 

A  combination  and  a  form  indeed, 

Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 

To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man  : 

This  was  your  husband.     Look  you  now, 
what  follows  : 

Here  is  your  husband ;  like   a  mildew'd 
ear, 

Blasting  his  wholesome  brother." 

How  could  she  turn  away  from  one  so  noble  ?  How 
could  she  forget  solemnly  contracted  vows  to  throw 
herself  into  the  arms  of  "  a  murderer  and  a  villain ; 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless       99 

a  slave  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  tithe  of  [her] 
precedent  lord  ? "  He  finds  but  one  answer  :  the 
capriciousness  of  lust.  This  it  is  that  made  her 
fall  a  prey  to  the  guilty  advances  of  her  husband's 
brother ;  that  drove  from  her  mind  the  image  of 
her  former  lord  before  he  was  laid  in  the  grave ; 
that  sealed  her  eyes  to  the  murder  of  her  husband 
and  hurried  her  into  an  incestuous  union  with  the 
murderer.  Licentiousness,  shallowness  of  heart, 
disloyalty  to  the  dead,  incest,  this  is  the  count. 
As  black  on  black  the  picture  is  painted  before  her 
eyes,  the  better  impulses  of  that  fallen  nature  are 
quickened  into  life  and  the  power  returns  to  see 
herself  as  she  is.  "  0  Hamlet,  speak  no  more," 
she  cries  in  the  agony  of  self-recognition, 

"  Thou  turns't  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul ; 

And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained 

.  L.  88. 

spots 

As  will  not  leave  their  tinct." 

Love  and  pity,  sorrow  and  shame  at  the  downfall 
of  her  nobler  self,  loathing  for  the  self  that  now 
dwells  in  its  place,  these  Hamlet  has  aroused.  If 
the  scene  is  meant  to  represent  the  awakening  of 
conscience,  these  are  conscience. 

But  if,  when  the  situation  demands  the  sacrifice 
of  some  personal  interest,  there  be  neither  altruism 
in  its  heaven-directed  or  earth-directed  form,  nor 
desire  for  perfection  of  character,  nor  direct  abhor- 
rence of  vice,  to  what  can  we  appeal  ?  Nothing. 
We  may,  of  course,  use  bribery  or  threats ;  but  the 


ioo     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

result  is  not  genuine  morality.  The  man  is  con- 
scienceless, whatever  he  does  or  refrains  from 
doing.  He  feels  no  scruples  about  the  proposed 
crime  and  no  real  remorse  for  it  when  past.  Shake- 
speare has  not  hesitated  to  draw  several  such  char- 
acters. If  we  disregard  Aaron,  in  Titus  Andronicus, 
on  the  ground  of  disputed  authorship,  his  first 
essay  in  this  direction  was  Richard  III.1 

To  descant  upon  the  crimes  of  this  intrepid  vil- 
lain were  to  harp  upon  a  hackneyed  theme.  As 
every  one  admits,  no  traces  of  moral  principle  can 
be  discovered  in  his  career  as  represented  in  the 
main  body  of  the  drama.  In  cold  blood  he  plans 
and  perpetrates  a  series  of  revolting  murders,  and 
feels  nothing  but  satisfaction  in  his  success.  But 
in  his  last  hours,  it  is  often  held,  this  moral  indif- 
ference disappears.  When,  on  the  eve  of  the  battle 
of  Bosworth  Field,  he  is  warned  by  voices  whose 
prophetic  nature  he  cannot  doubt  that  his  life  is 
at  an  end,  and  when  on  the  black  curtain  of  the 
night  the  vision  of  the  past  is  thrown,  scene  after 
scene,  then  what  he  calls  conscience  rises  to  afflict 
him.  He  awakes  in  terror,  while  cold  fearful  drops 
stand  on  his  trembling  flesh. 

What  are  the  thoughts  that  oppress  and  terrify 
his  soul  ?  It  is  easy  to  discover,  for  to  the  unbiased 
observer  they  are  unequivocally  revealed.  Listen 
to  the  cry  with  which  he  awakes : 

1  The  Shakespearean  authorship  of  Richard  III.  has  heen  de- 
nied by  James  Russell  Lowell,  but,  it  would  appear,  on  insufficient 
evidence. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     101 

"  Give   me   another   horse :    bind  up   my 
wounds. 
Have   mercy,   Jesu !  —  Soft !    I   did   but 

dream-  Richard  III. 

Methought  the  souls  of  all  that  I  had  v.  iii.  177, 
murder'd  178,204-206. 

Came   to   my  tent;    and  every  one  did 

threat 
To-morrow's  vengeance  on  the  head  of 

Richard." 

From  the  priest's  lips  he  had  often  heard  that 

"  The  great  King  of  kings 

Hath  in  the  tables  of  his  law  commanded       _  .     „,_ 

L.  iv.  200. 
That  thou  shalt  do  no  murder." 

That  God  "  holds  vengeance  in  His  hands,"  was  a 
fundamental  tenet  of  his  church.     Why 

L.  204. 

should  he  doubt  it  ?     There  is  no  evi- 
dence that  he  was  a  skeptic.    In  the  presence  of  his 
generals  he  could,  indeed,  scoff  at  the  thought  of 
future  retribution : 

"Let  not  our  babbling  dreams  affright  our 

souls : 

Conscience  is  but  a  word  that  cowards 

use, 

V  iii  308 
Devised  at  first  to  keep  the  strong  in 

awe: 

Our    strong    arms    be    our    conscience, 

swords  our  law." 

But  manifestly  he  is  here  whistling  to  keep  up  his 
own  and  his  followers'  courage.     Can  he  for  a  mo- 


102     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ment  imagine  that  God  will  fail  to  keep  His  word  ? 
Does  he  not  know  that  Richard,  King  of  England, 
has  never  permitted  the  slightest  act  of  disobedi- 
ence to  his  commands  to  go  unpunished  ?  So  with 
all  his  bravado  he  cannot  help  believing  these  mid- 
night apparitions  to  be  messengers  of  divine  wrath. 
For  belief  in  dreams  was  an  unquestioned  element 
in  the  creed  of  the  time,  and  what  these  dreams  an- 
nounced was  a  punishment  that  he  knew  was  inevi- 
table, sooner  or  later.  In  the  heyday  of  life  he 
could  forget  the  threatening  vengeance,  but  now  it 
is  immediately  upon  him ;  the  vengeance  is  to- 
morrow's, and  vengeance  means  not  merely  defeat 
and  failure,  but  death  and  hell.  Well  may  he  start 
in  terror,  though  no  coward.  But  in  all  this  there 
is  no  trace  of  self-condemnation ;  only  fear. 

.r  ...  ,~n  "0  coward  conscience,  how  dost  thou 
V.  ui.  179. 

afflict  ine ! " 

"  0  Ratcliff,  I  fear,  I  fear,  — 
Bat.   Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  afraid  of 

shadows. 
K.  Rich.  By  the  apostle  Paul,  shadows 

to-night 
Have  struck  more  terror  to  the  soul  of 

Richard 
Than  can  the  substance  of  ten  thousand 

soldiers 
Armed  in  proof,   and   led    by   shallow 

Richmond." 

Such  fear  by  itself  means  no  more  than  that  frail 
mortality  believes  itself  in  the  hands  of  Omnipo- 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     103 

tence,  enraged  because  for  the  moment  its  will  has 
been  blocked. 

But  the  text  as  handed  down  to  us  contains  other 
matter. 

"  What  do  I  fear  ?  myself  ?  there 's  none 
else  by : 

Eichard  loves  Richard;  that  is,  I  am  I. 

Is  there  a  murderer  here  ?  No.  Yes,  I 
am : 

Then  fly.     What,  from  myself  ?     Great 

reason  why :  L.  182. 

Lest  I  revenge.  What,  myself  upon  my- 
self ? 

Alack,  I  love  myself.  Wherefore  ?  for 
any  good 

That  I  myself  have  done  unto  myself  ? 

0,  no  !  alas,  I  rather  hate  myself 

For  hateful  deeds  committed  by  my- 
self!" 

and  so  forth,  for  nine  more  dreary  lines.  What 
are  we  to  make  of  such  words  ?  Is  Shakespeare 
representing  this  cold-blooded  monster  as  feeling 
genuine  remorse  for  crime  ?  Can  he  be  supposed 
to  hate  himself  ?  Does  he  intend  we  shall  believe 
Richard  was  oppressed  with  a  consciousness  of 
guilt  ? 

The  answer  to  this  question  involves  a  problem 
of  textual  criticism.  "  Some  parts  of  [this  solilo- 
quy]," says  Hudson1  "are  in  or  near  the  poet's 

1  Shakespeare :   His   Life,   Art,  and   Characters,   Vol.   II.,   p. 
168. 


104     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

best  style,  others  in  his  worst.  .  .  .  [The  latter  are] 
made  up  of  forced  conceits  and  affectations,  such 
as  nature  utterly  refuses  to  own.  ...  It  is  hard  to 
believe  that  Shakespeare  could  have  written  [them] 
at  any  time  of  his  life,  or  that  the  speaker  was 
meant  to  be  in  earnest  in  twisting  such  riddles ;  but 
he  was.  Some  have,  indeed,  claimed  to  see  a  reason 
for  the  thing  in  the  speaker's  state  of  mind ;  but  this 
view  is  to  my  thinking  quite  upset  by  the  better 
parts  of  the  same  speech."  Now  it  is  noticeable 
that  just  those  lines  of  the  monologue  that  are 
aesthetically  painful  are  ethically  perplexing.  We 
have,  therefore,  our  choice  between  two  hypotheses. 
Either  Shakespeare,  like  Coleridge,  in  that  mon- 
strosity known  as  Remorse,  supposed  that  sorrow 
for  a  misspent  life,  horror  of  crime,  and  self-loath- 
ing, can  arise  in  a  nature  that  possesses  neither 
sympathy,  honor,  nor  antipathy  for  treachery ;  or 
—  the  second  alternative  —  some  one  to  us  un- 
known, thinking  this  representation  of  the  guilty 
sinner  on  the  eve  of  death  was  not  sufficiently  ac- 
curate, or  edifying,  or  blood-curdling,  attempted  to 
improve  upon  Shakespeare's  art  by  supplementing 
his  deficiencies. 

The  latter  hypothesis  is  far  from  gratuitous. 
"It  seems  almost  certain,"  says  Karl  Elze1"that 
[Shakespeare's  own  manuscripts]  never  were  in 
a  printer's  hands,  except  the  manuscript  of  his 
Yenus  and  Adonis  and  his  Lucrece  which  he  pub- 

1  William  Shakespeare.  English  Translation,  hy  L.  Dora 
Schmitz,  p  296. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     105 

lished  himself."  For  this  reason  and  many  other 
equally  good  ones,  textual  critics  are  generally 
agreed  that  no  one  of  the  plays  has  come  down  to  us 
exactly  as  it  was  written.  If  with  these  facts  in 
mind  we  compare  the  lines  in  question  with  others 
that  are  undoubted  interpolations,  as  Measure  for 
Measure,  Act  III.,  scene  ii.,  lines  275-296,  and 
King  Lear,  Act  III.,  scene  ii.,  lines  80-95,  we 
shall  recognize  them  as  the  productions  of  kindred 
souls.  Accordingly  the  choice  seems  an  easy  one. 
The  passage  is  not  from  Shakespeare's  hand. 

But  if,  soaked  with  a  priori  ideas  of  what  the 
criminal  ought  to  feel,  we  reject  this  conclusion ; 
if  we  think  it  more  likely  that  the  youthful  Shake- 
speare wrote  doggerel  than  that  he  represented 
a  villain  living  and  dying  without  remorse,  we 
may  turn  to  the  studies  in  crime  of  the  maturer 
man,  the  man  who  in  the  days  of  the  great  trage- 
dies had  attained  the  fulness  of  his  mental  stature. 
The  conclusions  derivable  from  an  analysis  of  the 
characters  of  Goneril  and  Iago  depend  upon  no 
excision  of  doubtful  passages,  upon  no  interpreta- 
tions that  may  be  forced  upon  single  words  or 
isolated  sentences. 

It  has  been  said  even  by  keen  critics  that  Goneril 
and  her  sister  Regan  are  exactly  alike  ;  "  alike  as 
two  crabs,"  says  the  keenest  critic  of  the  guild. 
But  nature  never  turns  out  two  figures  from  the 
same  model,  and  Shakespeare  is  nature.  Regan 
has  the  tongue  of  a  shrew ;  moreover,  she  appears 
only  too  ready  in  carrying  out  the  suggestions  of 


106     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

her  older  sister.  But  in  judging  her  it  must  be 
remembered  that  both  women  acted  with  reference 
to  their  father  under  the  greatest  provocation.1  If 
all  the  circumstances  are  studied  carefully  and 
without  prejudice,  it  will  be  found  that  Regan,  while 
indeed  a  woman  of  cold,  selfish,  and  vindictive 
nature,  stands  no  lower  in  the  moral  scale  than 
hundreds  of  respectable  people ;  and  a  number  of 
indications  strewn  through  the  text  make  it  appear 
that  at  her  worst  she  is  rather  driven  to  evil  deeds 
by  awe  of  her  strong-minded  sister  than  drawn  by 
the  spontaneous  promptings  of  an  actively  cruel 
nature.  At  all  events,  it  is  from  Goneril  that  sug- 
gestions of  novelties  in  cruelty  invariably  come. 
She  it  is  that  first  disquantities  her  father's  train. 
She  it  is  that  forestalls  any  attempt  to  recall  the 
old  king,  as  he  rushes  out  into  the  darkness,  by  her 
cold-blooded  sentence : 

"  'T  is  his  own  blame ;  hath  put  himself 
Lear  II.  iv.  ,,  , 

293#  irom  rest, 

And  must  needs  taste  his  folly." 

Under  Lear's  curses  his  second  daughter  winces ; 
but  Goneril  merely  laughs  in  derision  at  his  terri- 
ble maledictions  as  the  drivelling  of  a  dotard. 

But  the  difference  between  the  sisters  goes  much 
deeper.  Regan  is  free  from  treachery  even  to  the 
point  of  unsuspiciousness ;  it  is  not  her  part  to 
press  the  poisoned  cup  to  the  lips  of  one  by  whose 
death  she  will  profit.     But  Goneril,  aspiring  to  the 

1  See  Barrett  Wendell,  William  Shakespeare,  p.  296  ff. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     107 

throne  of  an  undivided  England  in  company  with 
Edmund,  is  capable  of  destroying  every  life  that 
stands  between  her  and  her  goal.  Her  sister  we 
behold  stricken  by  her  potation  ;  her  husband  was 
to  fall  a  victim  to  the  same  fate  ;  her  brother-in- 
law  must  have  been  within  the  scope  of  her  mur- 
derous plans,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  way  in  which 
the  news  of  his  death  is  received  ;  it  was  her  writ, 
as  well  as  Edmund's,  that  was  upon  the  life  of  Lear 
and  of  Cordelia.  Nor  was  this,  as  we  may  infer, 
the  first  attempt  she  had  made  to  kill  her  father. 
Before  even  the  slight  excuse  that  he  had  harbored 
with  her  enemies  was  offered  her,  she  had  sought 
to  disencumber  herself  of  him.  We  learn  from 
Gloucester  that  at  the  time  Lear  sought  refuge 
with  Regan  there  was  "  a  plot  of  death 
upon  him."  We  cannot  with  justice 
suspect  the  second  sister,  for  she  seems  to  be  speak- 
ing in  good  faith  when  she  says  she  will  take  care 
of  her  father  gladly,  provided  he  will  dismiss  his 
retinue.  On  the  other  hand,  circumstantial  evi- 
dence, which  the  careful  reader  will  not  fail  to 
notice,  points  directly  to  Goneril  as  the  guilty  party. 
It  is  even  possible  that  she  had  formed  her  resolu- 
tion upon  the  very  day  on  which  the  old  king  an- 
nounced his  purpose  to  lay  down  his  authority. 
For  her  first  words  to  Regan,  after  the  partition  of 
the  kingdom,  are  dark  hints  about  important  plans 
concerning  Lear,  plans  not  to  be  thought  about, 
but  to  be  acted  upon  and  "  i'  the  heat." 

But,  after  all,  the  exact  time  at  which  Goneril 


108     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

became,  in  intention,  a  parricide  is  of  minor  con- 
sequence. She  is  in  any  event  a  monster,  whereas 
Regan  is  no  more  than  a  heartless  and  undutiful 
woman.  It  is  the  older  sister,  therefore,  that 
stands  as  the  incarnation  of  brazen-faced  iniquity 
in  its  most  aggressive  and  shameless  form. 

What,  then,  will  this  ruthless  creature  do  when 
her  husband  loads  her  with  reproaches  for  her  in- 
humanity and  want  of  natural  affection  ?  Will  she 
awake  to  a  sense  of  the  enormity  of  her  offences  ? 
Will  she  melt  with  contrition  ?  It  might  have  been 
if  within  her  breast  there  had  dwelt  some  rudiments 
of  a  better  nature.  On  the  eve  of  the  commission 
of  a  great  crime  many  a  perverted  will  finds  resolu- 
tion stayed  by  the  presence  of  an  enemy  within  the 
gates.  But  of  GoneriPs  kingdom  no  such  insurrec- 
tion is  recorded ;  for  the  historian,  looking  into  her 
soul,  found  there  no  rebel  armed  against  the  gov- 
erning power.  Hence,  when  she  is  confronted  with 
the  awful  picture  of  her  inner  life,  she  feels  no 
sorrow,  no  remorse,  because  she  lacks  the  pre- 
conditions. The  rather,  by  that  instinct  of  self- 
preservation  which  dwells  alike  in  our  best  and 
worst  impulses,  rage  and  contempt  arise.  Re- 
proach is  met  by  recrimination,  and  Albany  is 
scored  as  a  milksop,  a  coward,  a  moral- 

iv.  ii.  50-59.  jzino-  fool.      Later,  in  the  very  moment 

Cf.  Pericles  . 

iv.  iii.  when   her  sister  is  dying  with  poison 

that  she  has  administered,  and  her  plot 

to  kill  her  husband  lies  open  to  the  light  of  day,  she 

still  breathes  defiance  as  in  the  time  of  her  strength ; 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     109 
and  with  the  words  on  her  lips,  "  The    _  ...  ,co 

1    '  V.  m.  158. 

laws  are  mine,  not  thine :  who  can  ar- 
raign me  for 't  ?"  this  unbending  spirit  goes  forth 
to  meet  death. 

Yet  even  in  this  woman  there  still  slumbers  a 
germ  of  the  moral  life.  When  Edmund,  whom  she 
loves,  lies  dying  before  her,  she  suspects  double 
dealing,  and  at  once  raises  the  cry  of  treachery,  the 

cry,  that  is,  of  wrong,  not  merely  of  in- 

.  T  ,  ,  .  ,  V.  iii.  151. 

jury.      Inasmuch   as  her  own  sister   is 

at  that  moment  dying  of  the  poison  which  she  had 
herself  mixed,  such  a  complaint  may  seem  the  very 
acme  of  absurdity.  That  it  is  in  the  highest  degree 
inconsistent  is  evident ;  hardly  less  so  that  it  is 
supremely  human.  The  principle  is  illustrated 
over  and  over  again  in  the  historical  plays,  and 
while  every  one  is  familiar  with  its  less  exaggerated 
manifestations,  experience  will  show  that  there  are 
no  limits  to  its  application.  Goneril,  then,  pos- 
sesses just  sufficient  conscience  to  be  roused  to 
moral  indignation  for  a  passing  instant,  when  she 
believes  a  cruel  injury  has  been  done  her  and  the 
man  she  loves,  although  she  has  not  enough  to  feel 
the  lightest  touches  of  self-condemnation  for  the 
crimes  by  which  she  herself  is  to  profit. 

It  is  to  Iago,  then,  that  we  must  turn  for  Shake- 
speare's sole  representative,  in  his  later  period,  of 
the  absolutely  conscienceless  being.  With  the 
moral  vocabulary  Iago  is,  indeed,  well  acquainted. 
By  observation  he  has  learned  what  others  admire 
and  hate.     Hence,  he  can  use  terms  expressive  of 


no     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

praise  and  blame  with  perfect  propriety.  Such 
actions  as  his,  he  knows,  people  call  the  blackest 
sins ;  himself  they  would  call  a  devil.  We  may 
accordingly  overhear  him  saying,  with  admirable 
perspicuity : 

"  When    devils  will  the  blackest  sins  put 
on, 
Othello  II.         They  do  suggest  at  first  with  heavenly 
iii.  357.  shows, 

As  I  do  now." 

But  let  no  one  be  deceived  by  these  linguistic 
attainments. 

Students  of  criminal  psychology  have  noticed 
that  most  criminals  employ  euphemistic  terms  in 
speaking  of  their  misdeeds.  In  the  language  of 
the  German  vagabond,  thieving  is  business  {G-e- 
schcift).  The  French  burglar  and  murderer,  Lace- 
naire,  used  the  same  word  in  seeking  to  obtain  an 
accomplice  in  his  friend  Avril :  "  We  ought  to  go 
into  business  together,"  he  urged  —  "  nous  devons 
meler  ensemble  notre  industrie." 1  In  the  thieves' 
Henr  V  JarSon  °^  England,  according  to  the  boy 
in.  ii.  44.  in  Henry  V.,  stealing  was  "  purchase." 
M  From  Pistol  we  learn  it  was  also  styled 

Wives  I.  "  convey."  This  characteristic  of  hu- 
man nature  —  for  it  is  not  confined  to 
those  who  come  into  conflict  with  the  police  —  has 
sometimes  occasioned  much  amusement  among  the 
thoughtless.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  man  who 
1  Despine,  Psychologie  naturelle,  Vol.  II.,  p.  433. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     1 1 1 

in  the  very  act  of  committing  a  crime  can  look 
upon  his  deed  with  unaverted  eyes,  has  reached  the 
last  stage  of  moral  insensibility.  For  him  who 
palters  with  himself  there  is  always  some  hope  ; 
for  the  clear-seeing  criminal,  never.  Accordingly, 
when  an  immoral  man  applies  to  his  own  conduct 
the  adjectives  by  which  the  race  express  their 
admirations  and  loathings,  he  demonstrates  either 
complete  atrophy  of  conscience,  or  a  weak  will,  which 
knows  and  approves  the  better,  and  struggles, 
though  in  vain,  against  overmastering  temptations. 
It  is  to  the  former  class  that  Iago  belongs.  Like 
Richard  III.,  he  can  face  the  truth  be- 
cause insensible  of  its  meaning.  What  In  ^im 
feats  of  objectivity  were  possible  to  him  Richard 
is  shown  by  a  significant  passage  at  the  gF'3«  1- 
beginning  of  the  fifth  act.  Having  de- 
cided that  Cassio  must  die  —  a  point  apparently 
not  included  in  the  original  draft  of  his  plan  —  he 
is  reviewing  after  his  characteristic  fashion  the 
grounds  for  his  decision.  Among  them  he  finds 
this  : 

"  [Cassio]  hath  a  daily  beauty  in  his  life    othello  V. 
That  makes  me  ugly."  i-  19- 

Iago  has  discovered  that  people  admire  Cassio 
more  than  him,  notwithstanding  his  "  honesty " 
and  desire  to  be  useful.  Such  a  state  of  affairs 
may  be  prejudicial  to  his  interests.  Indeed  it  had 
already  proved  so,  for  it  had  doubtless  helped  to 


ii2     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

bring  about  the  promotion  of  the  "  bookish  theoric  " 
to  the  position  he  himself  coveted.  And  certainly 
it  had  led  to  the  selection  of  the  same  theorist  in 
preference  to  the  practical  ancient  as  Othello's  con- 
fidant in  his  love  affairs.  For  this  reason,  then, 
Cassio  must  be  thrust  out  of  the  way.  But  instead 
of  saying  to  himself,  as  a  better  man  would  have 
done :  Cassio  must  be  killed,  because  people  admire 
him  more  than  me,  he  states  his  grounds  with 
almost  incredible  coolness  in  purely  objective 
terms :  Cassio's  character  is  more  admirable  than 
mine.  Such  an  utterance  would  have  been  practi- 
cally impossible  had  not  these  words  been  to  him 
as  are  the  names  of  colors  to  one  born  blind,  who 
has  mastered  the  science  of  optics. 

Some  critics  have  found  it  possible,  however,  to 
endow  Iago  with  the  rudiments  of  a  conscience, 
because  of  a  peculiarity  in  the  accounts  he  gives 
himself  of  his  own  motives.  As  is  well  known, 
the  utterances  of  the  monologues  in  which  these 
revelations  appear  are  confused  and  at  times  con- 
tradictory. The  facts  themselves,  nevertheless, 
seem  perfectly  clear.  He  desires  Roderigo's 
money,  Cassio's  place  ;  possibly,  too,  the  satisfaction 
of  avenging  himself  upon  Othello  for  preferring  a 
book-crammed  student  to  a  man  of  affairs  like 
himself,  and  for  being  the  (innocent)  occasion  of 
false  reports  about  his  wife's  infidelity.  Though 
with  regard  to  this  matter  of  revenge,  we  may  be 
sure  that  it  would  never  have  been  allowed  to  inter- 
fere with  what  he  considered  his  profit;  while  the 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     113 

fact  that  at  the  end  he  tries  to  drag  Othello  into 
the  same  net  with  himself  can  be  explained  by 
other  motives  than  malevolence.1  Most  of  all  he 
lusts  for  a  sense  of  his  own  power,  and  like 
Nietzsche,  he  knows  nothing  of  the  strength  that 
dedicates  itself  to  bearing  the  burdens  of  others.  He 
therefore  finds  an  actual  enjoyment  in  his  villainy, 
not  primarily  because  he  wants  revenge,  as  is  the 
conventional  opinion,  but  because  he  delights  in 
the  sense  of  strength  and  skill  that  is  awakened  by 
successful  intrigue.2  He  chuckles  over  his  disguise 
and  plays  with  it ;  he  becomes  so  fasci-  cf.  11.  iii. 
nated  with  the  game  that  he  half  forgets  342» ff- 
the  ends  for  which  it  was  originally  undertaken, 
and  we  hear  about  his  marital  jealousy  of  the  Moor 
gnawing  his  inwards,  and  even  of  a  11.  i.  304- 
similar  jealousy  of  Oassio.  316- 

The  palpable  absurdity  of  his  believing  such 
suspicions,  and  of  their  "  gnawing  his  inwards," 
even  if  he  did  believe  them,  is  so  great  that  many 
critics,  following  Coleridge,  have  discovered  in 
these  utterances  the  workings  of  conscience  seek- 
ing some  justification  for  the  deeds  it  beholds 
committed.  There  is,  however,  no  necessity  for 
such  an  assumption.  A  cold-blooded  calculating- 
machine  like  Iago  must  always  have  some  ulterior 
end  in  view  in  everything  he  does.  Are  there  not 
many  excellent  people  who  can  never  take  a  walk 
or   go   upon   a    journey    without   inventing  some 

1  See  below,  p.  126. 

2  See  Hazlitt,  Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays :  Othello. 

8 


114     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

errand  or  call  of  business  by  way  of  a  pretext  ? 
Iago  is  one  of  this  class.  Starting  out  to  get 
money,  position,  and  a  taste  of  revenge  en  route, 
he  is  so  far  carried  away  by  his  delight  in  the  hunt 
that  to  keep  his  self-respect  as  a  rational  being  he 
has  to  invent  as  many  reasons  as  his  imagination  can 
rake  together  to  justify  himself  in  taking  the  enor- 
mous risks  he  is  incurring.  Calculation,  not  con- 
science, is  the  only  explanation  needed  for  his 
"  motive  hunting."  Calculation  and  a  passion  for 
intrigue  explain  the  overwhelming  majority  of  his 
words  and  deeds.  The  little  that  remains  outside 
springs  from  sources  not  a  whit  more  pure. 

How  Iago  will  act  when  his  trap  finally  closes 
upon  himself  is  foreshadowed  in  the  analysis  just 
made.  Devoid  as  he  is  of  all  moral  sensibility,  he 
betrays  neither  sorrow  nor  shame  as  the  network 
of  his  villainy  is  at  length  unravelled  in  the  sight 
of  the  world,  and  his  victims  lie  stricken  before 
his   eyes.     He  confesses   just  enough  to  secure  a 

••  oqc_7    companion  in  punishment,  then  closes 
his  lips  forever.     Unrelenting,  cold  as 
the  remorseless  ice  of  an  Alpine  glacier,  he  is  led 
away  in  silence  to  the  torture  chamber. 

Does  Iago  live  in  this  real  world  of  ours  ?  Can 
a  human  mother  bring  forth  such  a  monster  ?  The 
answer  of  transcendentalism  is  unequivocal.  In 
the  most  emphatic  terms  Kant  affirms  and  reaffirms 
the  doctrine  that  "  there  is  no  man  so  depraved 
that  in  transgressing  [the  moral  law]  he  would  not 
feel  a  resistance,  and  an  abhorrence  of  himself,  so 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     115 

that  he  must  put  a  force  on  himself."  *  The  very 
existence  of  transcendentalism  is  bound  up  with  the 
maintenance  of  this  position.  For  the  categorical 
ought  is  the  offspring  of  pure  reason,  and  pure 
reason,  as  the  source  of  the  fundamental  princi- 
ples of  all  forms  of  knowledge,  is  an  essential  ele- 
ment of  even  the  most  primitive  human  mind. 
Moreover,  the  purpose  of  the  creation  of  man 
lies  in  his  reducing  the  inner  world  of  impulse 
and  the  outer  world  of  blind  force  to  a  cosmos 
governed  by  reason's  law.  Obviously  nature  can- 
not be  represented  as  defeating  its  own  ends  by 
creating  instruments  that  lack  the  fundamental 
requisite  for  the  performance  of  their  appointed 
function. 

Whom,  then,  shall  we  believe,  Kant  or  Shake- 
speare ?  As  was  promised  in  the  introduction  to 
this  study,  the  question  of  the  objective  value  of 
Shakespeare's  delineations  has  hitherto  been  kept 
in  the  background.  At  this  point,  however,  an 
exception  to  the  previously  observed  policy  seems 
to  be  called  for.  In  the  first  place,  as  the  outcome 
of  carefully  conducted  researches  carried  on  by  a 
large  number  of  investigators  during  the  past  forty 
years,  there  has  come  into  existence  a  group  of 
important  principles  that  are  accepted  by  all 
authorities  regardless  of  what  other  ethical  and 
metaphysical  theories  they  may  happen  to  hold. 
Here,  for  once,  then,  we  can  test   Shakespeare's 

1  Kant,  Metaphysik  der  Sitten;  Einleitung  zur  Tugendlehre. 
Abbott's  Translation,  p.  290,  note. 


n6     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

fidelity  to  nature  by  criteria  more  objective  than 
individual  prejudices  and  fancies.  In  the  second 
place,  as  we  have  already  seen,  and  as  we  shall 
have  farther  opportunity  to  discover  in  our  study 
of  Macbeth,  Shakespeare's  criminals  are  constantly 
being  misinterpreted  through  ignorance  of  the 
character  of  their  prototypes  in  our  own  world.  A 
brief  review  of  certain  of  the  results  of  criminal 
psychology  may  accordingly  prove  of  genuine  ser- 
vice to  the  cause  of  Shakespearean  criticism. 

The  most  important  and  startling  of  these  re- 
sults is  one  that  vindicates  in  every  detail  Shake- 
speare's portrait  of  Iago.  As  all  students  of  moral 
pathology  are  agreed,  there  exists  a  type  of  man 
to  which  the  name  born  or  instinctive  criminal 
has  been  given.1  The  essential  characteristics  of 
this  class  are  two  in  number  :  first,  complete  moral 
insensibility,  revealed  by  absence  of  all  repugnance 
to  the  suggestion  of  crime  before  the  deed  and  of 
remorse  after  the  commission.  This,  of  course,  does 
not  mean  that  the  criminal  is  unaware  that  the 
adjective  "  wrong  "  is  by  many  people  attached  to 
certain  classes  of  action,  or  that  society  or  God 
dislikes  such  actions,  and  will  strike  back  in  re- 
venge when  the  chance  offers.  What  he  lacks  is 
the  experiences  that  give  the  moral  vocabulary  its 
meaning  to  the  good  man.  This  phenomenon  is 
often  called  moral  imbecility.  The  second  charac- 
teristic of  the  born  criminal  is  a  high  degree  of 

1  Both  terms  are  misleading ;  the  adjective  "  incorrigible " 
seems  to  me  more  satisfactory. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     117 

perversity,  that  is,  the  dominance  of  desires  that 
are  either  directly  anti-social,  —  as  malicious 
cruelty  and  revengefulness, —  or  at  least  seducive, 
by  which  is  meant  peculiarly  liable  to  grow  at 
the  expense  of  the  higher  interests.  Most  promi- 
nent among  the  latter  are  laziness,  love  of  money, 
and  lust. 

The  existence  of  this  variety  of  Homo  sapiens  is 
in  no  way  dependent  upon  the  truth  of  theories 
about  the  shape  of  criminals'  skulls,  the  develop- 
ment of  their  lower  jaw,  and  much  else  of  the 
same  sort.  For  the  existence  of  the  psychological 
differentiae  of  the  class  is  not  called  in  question 
by  any  opponent  of  the  Italian  school  of  criminal 
anthropology  who  has  made  a  first-hand  study  of 
the  subject,  in  whatever  way  he  may  be  inclined  to 
explain  the  facts. 

Whether  the  term  moral  imbecility  shall  be  re- 
stricted to  those  in  whom  conscience  is  absolutely 
a  zero  is,  of  course,  a  mere  matter  of  terminology. 
Such  persons  are  few  in  number,  and  the  degrees 
of  approximation  to  that  state  are  innumerable. 
The  ordinary  basis  of  classification  seems  to  be 
obtained  by  including  under  the  name  born  crimi- 
nal those  who  have  exhibited  entire  absence  of 
moral  sensibility  with  regard  to  such  capital  or 
penitentiary  offences  as  they  may  be  known  to  have 
committed. 

The  evidence  for  the  existence  of  moral  imbe- 
cility is  varied  in  nature  and  only  too  abundant 
in  amount.     We  may  lay  it  down  as  a  universal 


1 1 8     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

law  that  remorseful  guilt  will  confess  when  con- 
fronted with  the  proof  of  its  evil  deeds.  In  fact, 
there  are  many  cases  on  record  where  the  unsus- 
pected but  repentant  criminal  has  voluntarily  sur- 
rendered himself  into  the  hands  of  the  law.  In 
not  a  few  of  these  instances  the  motive  has  been  a 
craving  for  punishment,  born  of  moral  indignation 
against  the  lower  nature  to  which  surrender  has 
been  made.1  But  the  born  criminal  never  con- 
fesses until  the  evidence  against  him  is  absolutely 
overwhelming,  and  often  not  even  then.  Further- 
more, he  disclaims  all  feelings  of  sorrow  and  repent- 
ance ;  he  openly  gloats  over  past  success,  or  mourns 
over  failure ;  he  often  slanders  the  injured  party 
from  the  dock  out  of  pure  malice,  under  circum- 
stances where  he  cannot  suppose  he  will  thereby 
change  the  outcome  of  the  trial ;  and  finally,  he 
is  given  to  abusing  the  police,  the  jury,  or  the 
judge,  after  his  conviction.  Occasionally  he  dis- 
plays some  feeling  at  his  trial,  but  it  is  very 
remote  in  nature  from  remorse.  Despine  relates 
that  a  murderer  twenty-two  years  of  age  on  being 
brought  to  trial  manifested  no  concern  of  any  kind 
till  informed  that  in  the  room  of  his  victim,  where 
he  and  his  accomplice  had  succeeded  in  finding 
only  eighty  francs,  a  purse  of  fifteen  hundred 
francs  was  concealed.  Thereupon  he  burst  into 
tears,  exclaiming,  "  Oh,  I  told  Chopin  that  it  did  n't 

1  This  seemingly  paradoxical  emotion  is  exhibited  in  more  than 
one  of  Shakespeare's  characters :  e.  g.,  Posthumus  in  Cymbeline. 
See  V.,  iv.,  3-29  ;  v.,  210-225. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     119 

pay  to  kill  a  man  for  eighty  francs." *  Moreover, 
when  the  wife  murderer  sleeps  quietly  for  two 
or  three  nights  in  the  bed  by  the  side  of  the 
victim  of  his  knife,  and  when  the  parricide  is 
found  in  a  saloon  on  the  evening  of  the  murder 
smoking  calmly  and  watching  with  interest  a 
game  of  billiards,  then  we  are  entitled  to  infer 
that  remorse  can  hardly  be  disturbing  their  peace 
of  mind.  More  striking  than  any  other  class  of 
evidence  is  that  exhibiting  the  attitude  of  many 
criminals  towards  God.  Take  as  an  example  the 
following  typical  case.  "  A  wife  who  was  poison- 
ing her  husband  wrote  to  her  accomplice  :  '  He  is 
not  well.  .  .  Oh,  if  God  would  have  pity  on  us, 
how  I  would  bless  Him !  When  he  complains  [of 
the  effects  of  the  poison]  I  thank  God  in  my 
heart.'  And  lie  answers,  '  I  will  pray  to  Heaven 
to  aid  us.'  And  she  again, '  He  was  ill  yesterday. 
I  thought  that  God  was  beginning  His  work.  I 
have  wept  so  much  that  it  is  not  possible  God 
should  not  have  pity  on  my  tears.' "  2  In  their  ex- 
pectation of  the  approbation  and  sympathy  of  an 
all-seeing  and  impartial  spectator,  tbese  murderers 
show  beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake  how  far 
they  are  removed  from  self-condemnation  and 
shame. 

The  impression  that  the  layman  carries  away 
from  the  reading  of  such  reports  is  confirmed  by 
the  concurrent  testimony  of  those  who  have  had 

1  Psychologie  naturelle,  Vol.  II.,  p.  416. 

2  Havelock  Ellis,  The  Criminal,  p.  158. 


120     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

the  best  opportunities  for  studying  the  criminal 
at  first  hand.  The  brilliant  Russian  author,  Dos- 
toieffsky,  who  spent  several  years  in  a  Siberian 
prison,  declares  that  he  never  met  with  one 
instance  of  moral  suffering  caused  by  the  memory 
of  a  crime.  "  I  have,"  he  continues,  "  frequently 
heard  convicts  relate  the  most  terrible  crimes,  the 
most  unnatural  deeds,  laughing  heartily  at  the 
recollection  of  them." 1  Perhaps  the  most  exhaus- 
tive investigation  ever  made  into  this  subject  is 
that  undertaken  by  the  eminent  Italian  authority, 
Ferri,in  preparation  for  his  work  on  homicide.  Of 
seven  hundred  criminals,  murderers  and  thieves, 
whom  he  examined,  more  than  ten  per  cent,  he  tells 
us,  gave  "  absolute  proof  by  the  shamelessness  of 
their  behavior  of  the  entire  absence  of  remorse ; " 
and  the  probable  proportion  of  the  completely 
indifferent  and  unrepentant  is  placed  at  thirty-five 
per  cent.2 

Troubled  by  some  vague  suspicion  of  such  facts, 
transcendentalism  has  at  times  shifted  its  position. 
Moral  insensibility  is  admitted,  but  is  asserted  to 
be  the  result  of  a  long-continued  course  of  wrong- 
doing. Thus  it  is  said  that  "  a  man  to  be  what 
Tago  is,  when  we  see  him,  must  have  gone  through 
much  perversion  and  many  gradations  of  evil."3 
This  does  not  seem  to  be  Shakespeare's  view.    Iago 

1  Dostoieffsky,  Buried  Alive,  chap.  i. 

2  Lombroso,  The  Criminal  (L'uomo  delinguente) ,  German  Trans- 
lation, Vol.  I.,  pp.  348-350. 

3  Giles,  Human  Life  in  Shakespeare,  p.  116. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless      121 

is  but  twenty-eight ;  while  of  Richard  III.  his  own 
mother  bears  the  impressive  testimony  : 

"  Tetchy  and  wayward  was  thy  infancy; 
Thy    school-days    frightful,    desperate,    Richard  III. 
wild,  and  furious,  IV.  iv.  168. 

Thy  prime  of  manhood  daring,  bold,  and 
venturous." 

Again  the  dramatist  and  the  criminal  psychologist 
are  at  one.  Despine's  classical  work  contains 
examples  of  moral  imbecility  from  every  period 
of  life,  beginning  with  twelve  years.  One  of  Feuer- 
bach's  worst  cases  is  a  youth  of  fourteen.1  Moral 
imbecility  may  thus  be  due  to  a  congenital  taint. 

We  must  accordingly  face  the  fact  that  there 
are  human  beings  in  whom  not  the  slightest  trace 
of  moral  sensibility  has  ever  been  discovered. 
However,  among  the  morally  imbecile,  as  this  term 
was  denned  on  page  117,  there  sometimes  appear 
faint  traces  of  a  better  nature.  GoneriPs  dark 
heart  we  have  seen  lighted  for  an  instant  by  a 
gleam  of  moral  indignation.  Macbeth  and  Lady 
Macbeth  were  true  to  each  other.  The  importance 
of  understanding  these  two  tragic  figures,  the  most 
subtle  delineations  in  the  long  line  of  Shakespeare's 
criminals,  will  justify  us  in  dwelling  for  a  moment 
upon  these  inconsistencies  of  the  human  will. 

Absence  of  remorse  means  inter  alia  complete 
indifference  to  the  sufferings  of  the  victim.     But 

1  Feuerbach,  Aktenmassige  Darstellung  merkwiirdiger  Ver- 
brechen,  chap,  xxviii. 


122     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

with  this  leaden  apathy  may  go  some  considerable 
capacity  for  sharing  the  joy  and  sorrow  of  one  or 
two  intimate  associates.  Certain  poisoners  and 
other  murderers  have  even  been  notably  chari- 
table ;  although  those  who  ought  to  know  assert 
that  such  benevolence  is  mixed  with  much  alien 
material.  Again,  there  are  cases  on  record  where 
no  affection,  not  even  the  slightest,  has  shown 
itself  for  any  human  being.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  emotion  need  not  be  wholly  wanting,  and 
it  occasionally  occurs  in  great  intensity.  For  ex- 
ample, Lombroso  declares  that  one  of  the  most 
ferocious  female  criminals  he  ever  knew  was 
passionately  fond  of  children. 

It  must  be  added,  however,  that  what  affection 
and  sympathy  these  miserable  beings  possess  is  apt 
to  be  wholly  capricious  in  its  workings.  Lacenaire, 
a  brutal  thief  and  murderer,  of  whom  we  shall  hear 
again,  declared  that  he  was  never  overcome  by  the 
sight  of  his  victim's  corpse :  "  When  I  kill  a  person 
I  have  no  more  feeling  about  it  than  when  I  drink 
a  glass  of  wine,"  are  his  own  words.  But  he  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  overcome  with  sorrow  at  the 
death  of  his  cat.  To  save  its  life  he  risked  his 
own  on  the  very  day  that  he  murdered  an  old  lady 
and  her  son  for  their  money.1  Perhaps  the  most 
extraordinary  instance  of  one-sided  sympathy  ever 
chronicled  is  that  told  by  Lombroso  on  the  author- 
ity of  Paul  Lindau  :  "  A  man  by  the  name  of 
Schunicht  murdered  one  of  his  former  mistresses 

1  Lombroso,  opus  cit.,  Vol.  L,  pp.  301,  317. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless      123 

in  the  most  brutal  manner  and  with  an  indifference 
absolutely  revolting.  He  had  already  left  the  house, 
when  it  occurred  to  him  that  the  body  might  remain 
undiscovered  for  weeks,  and  in  that  event  the  canary 
belonging  to  the  murdered  woman  would  starve  to 
death.  Thereupon  Schunicht  retraced  his  steps, 
scattered  enough  food  upon  the  floor  of  the  cage  to 
last  the  bird  for  several  days,  and  opened  the  cage- 
door  and  the  window  in  the  adjoining  room  so  that 
in  any  event  the  bird  could  make  its  escape."  J 

This  anomalous  trait  is  sometimes  accompanied 
by  another  characteristic  even  more  paradoxical. 
Given  the  rudiments  of  sympathy,  it  will  some- 
times assume  the  form  of  sentimentality.  By  this 
is  meant  playing  the  role  of  the  sympathetic  and 
generous  mind,  not  merely  before  the  world,  but 
also  before  oneself,  the  actor  evidently  deceiving 
himself  more  or  less  for  the  time,  and  enjoying  the 
resulting  emotion ;  just  as  some  people  who  never 
give  way  to  resentment  in  any  form  delight  in  im- 
agining that  they  have  savage  tempers,  and  others 
like  to  think  of  themselves  as  unhappy  for  the  sake 
of  the  pleasures  of  self-pity  thereby  gained.  Says 
that  profound  student  of  criminal  humanity,  Anselm 
von  Feuerbach  :  "  There  is  an  intimate  relation, 
especially  in  cold  natures,  between  the  cravings  of 
romantic  emotionalism  and  the  sentimentality  that, 
driven  by  a  kind  of  necessity,  titillates  the  inner 
sense  by  what  is  not  really  felt,  but  merely  imagines 
itself  felt ;  that  attempts  to  palm  off  upon  itself 

1  Lombroso,  opus  cit.,  Vol.  L,  p.  318. 


124     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

and  the  world  mere  grimaces  in  the  place  of 
genuine  passions,  thereby  poisoning  forever  the 
source  of  the  fundamental  certitudes,  the  emotional 
life.  .  .  .  The  genuine  feelings  are  soon  smothered 
by  the  spurious,  which  explains  the  fact  that  senti- 
mentality is  compatible  with  the  most  complete 
hardness  of  heart  and  even  with  active  cruelty."  1 

A  sufficient  illustration  of  this  principle  is 
afforded  by  the  "  literary  remains  "  with  which  cer- 
tain of  these  choice  spirits  have  enriched  the  world. 
No  more  malignant  fiend  was  ever  cursed  with  life 
than  Thomas  Wainewright,  the  poisoner.  "Yet 
the  chief  characteristic  of  his  essays,"  says  Ellis, 
"  is  their  sentimentality.  Himself  he  describes 
as  the  possessor  of  a  soul  whose  nutriment  is  love, 
and  its  offspring,  art,  music,  divine  song,  and  still 
holier  philosophy."  2  Reading  such  flowing  lines, 
we  shall  not  be  surprised  to  learn  that  when  the 
muses  smile  upon  him,  the  moral  imbecile  may 
become  the  poet  of  love  and  friendship.  A  typical 
example  presents  itself  in  the  notorious  Lacenaire. 

Lacenaire  has  perhaps  been  sufficiently  charac- 
terized in  what  was  said  of  him  above.  Yet  there 
may  be  profit  in  having  a  more  concrete  idea  of 
this  strange  personality  as  the  representative  of  a 
class,  and  I  therefore  quote  briefly  from  his  biog- 
raphy as  given  by  Despine.3     On   trial  for  his  life 

1  Eeuerbach,  opus  cit.,  p.  15. 

2  Havelock  Ellis,  opus  cit.,  p.  153.  His  biography  is  given  in 
brief  by  Ellis,  p.  12  ff.,  and  p.  127.  On  this  subject  cf.  Feuerbach, 
opus  cit.,  p.  358. 

8  Opus  cit.,  Vol.  II,  p.  423  ff. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless      125 

on  thirty  different  counts,  —  burglaries,  forgeries, 
assaults,  and  murders,  —  his  interest  seemed  to  be 
completely  centered  in  presenting  a  good  appear- 
ance to  the  world  contained  within  the  court-room 
walls.  "  He  seated  himself  upon  the  prisoner's 
bench  with  complete  self-possession,  and  talked  to 
his  lawyer  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips.  He  acted 
as  if  he  had  no  part  whatever  in  the  trial  that  was 
about  to  begin,  an  attitude  which  he  maintained 
throughout,  and  which  appeared  to  the  spectators 
as  posing."  This  was  no  comedy  intended  to  de- 
ceive the  court,  for,  the  evidence  against  him  being 
absolutely  complete,  he  admitted  his  guilt  from 
the  first.  He  listened  without  emotion  to  the 
reading  of  the  long  list  of  his  crimes,  and  later 
described  them  in  an  indifferent  and  flippant  tone 
which  filled  his  hearers  with  horror.  At  times  he 
smiled  agreeably,  at  other  times  laughed  heartily, 
as  in  giving  an  account  of  the  murder  of  a  girl  who 
possessed  information  that  might  compromise  him 
with  the  police.  He  lured  her  into  his  room,  in- 
duced her  to  drink  a  bottle  of  wine  with  him,  and 
thereupon  stabbed  her.  This  adventure,  as  he 
related  it,  he  seemed  to  find  very  amusing. 

The  following  incident  in  his  trial  will  throw  ad- 
ditional light  upon  his  character.  A  double  mur- 
der had  been  committed  some  time  before,  but  no 
clue  to  the  perpetrators  had  been  found.  Lace- 
naire,  since  he  had  nothing  to  lose,  announced  him- 
self as  the  murderer,  and  affably  informed  the 
authorities   that  he   had   two   accomplices  whose 


ii6     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

names  he  gave,  and  whose  whereabouts  he  dis- 
closed. His  motive  in  thus  ruining  his  comrades 
was  not  revenge  for  some  real  or  fancied  wrong. 
It  was  merely  the  desire  for  company  that  misery 
feels,  a  phenomenon  described  clearly  in  the  fol- 
lowing report  of  another  trial  taken  from  the 
same  rich  storehouse  :  "  I  was  perfectly  willing 
to  kill,  I  did  n't  mind  it  a  bit,  for  they  had  prom- 
ised to  pay  me  for  it ;  but  I  wanted  Joseph  to  strike 
the  blow  with  me,  so  that  if  I  was  caught  I  should 
not  get  into  trouble  alone."  1  Lacenaire  had  his 
reward.  His  accomplices  were  executed  with  him. 
When  one  of  these  unfortunate  beings,  who  per- 
sisted in  denying  his  guilt,  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of 
fury  at  the  completeness  of  the  evidence  against 
him,  Lacenaire  laughed  till  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  cheeks. 

Such  was  the  man  who,  under  sentence  of  death, 
his  execution  but  a  few  weeks  distant,  unrepentant 
and  devoid  of  shame,  was  capable  of  writing  a 
poem  beginning  with  the  following  lines.2 

"  Maudissez-moi,  j'ai  ri  de  vos  bassesses, 
J'ai  ri  des  Dieux,  pour  vous  seuls  inventes  ; 
Maudissez-moi :  mon  ame,  sans  faiblesses, 
Fut  ferme  et  franche  en  ses  atrocites. 
Pourtant  cette  ame  etait  loin  d'etre  noire, 
Je  fus  parfois  beni  des  malheureux  .  .  . 
A  la  vertu  si  mon  coeur  eut  pu  croire, 
N'en  doutez  pas,  j'eusse  ete  vertueux." 

1  Despine,  Vol.  II.,  p.  175.     Cf.  above,  p.  113. 

2  Lombroso,  opus  cit.,  Vol.  I.,  p.  424. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     127 

In  a  few  born  criminals,  I  repeat,  what  little  sym- 
pathy they  possess  takes  the  form  of  sentimentality. 
Weakness  of  sympathy  is  accompanied  usually, 
though  not  invariably,  by  imperfect  development 
of  autopathy,  or  interest  in  one's  own  future. 
Where  the  imagination  is  too  sluggish  to  enable  its 
possessor  to  put  himself  into  another  man's  place, 
it  is  likely  to  fail  when  he  attempts  to  project  him- 
self into  scenes  and  conditions  not  immediately 
connected  with  the  imperious  present.  Thus,  like 
the  savage  and  the  infant,  he  may  be  absolutely 
indifferent  to  even  the  foreseen  evils  of  to-morrow. 
Then  it  happens  that  he  will  commit  crimes  in 
order  to  get  money  for  a  few  days'  debauchery, 
although,  as  he  afterwards  admits,  he  was  perfectly 
aware  all  the  time  that  detection  and  punishment, 
this  often  involving  the  death  penalty,  would  be 
the  inevitable  consequence. 

"  Bien  fou,  ma  foi,  qui  sacrifie 
Le  present  au  temps  a  venir," 

these  lines  of  Lacenaire  appear  to  represent  the 
maxim  upon  which  he  habitually  acts.1  The  fol- 
lowing incident  described  by  Dostoieffsky  shows 
how  it  works  in  practice.  Dontoff  "  was  brought 
before  the  court  martial,  and  sentenced  to  run  the 
gauntlet.  He  was  .  .  .  mortally  afraid  of  physical 
pain.  He  managed  to  secrete  a  knife  about  his 
person,  and  on  the  eve  of  the  fatal  day,  he  at- 

1  They  follow  immediately  his  above-quoted  lamentation  for 
the  virtues  he  never  possessed. 


128     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

tempted  to  stab  one  of  his  officers,  as  he  entered 
the  cell.  He  was  perfectly  aware  that  by  this  act 
he  only  aggravated  his  punishment,  and  yet  he  did 
it  merely  for  the  sake  of  having  the  terrible  mo- 
ment put  off  for  a  few  days,  at  the  utmost."  1 

Among  other  ways  the  sovereignty  of  the  present 
shows  itself  in  indifference  to  punishment  in  a 
future  life.  Comparatively  few  criminals  are  athe- 
ists, and  few  deny  the  existence  of  a  life  beyond  the 
grave,  where  man  must  render  an  account  of  the 
deeds  done  in  the  body.  Sometimes  their  indif- 
ference about  consequences  is  really  due  to  moral 
obtuseness ;  they  cannot  see  that  they  have  done 
anything  to  awaken  the  wrath  of  God.  Others 
with  more  intelligence  admit  the  fact  but  do  not 
care. 

This  principle  of  criminal  psychology  is  illus- 
trated by  Shakespeare  over  and  over  again.  "  For 
the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought 

^yintGr's 

Tale  iv.  °f   iV    savs    Autolycus.     Not  different 

iii.  30.  was   the   attitude  of   his    more   famous 

1  Henry  predecessor.  In  his  tilts  with  Prince  Hal, 
iv.  i.  ii.  Falstaff  can  treat  eternal  damnation  as 

102—9 

a  huge  joke.  In  a  different  mood,  when 
admonished  in  straightforward  English  of  the  need 
to  repent,  he  thrusts  the  suggestion  from  him ; 
there  is  a  momentary  pang  of  terror  and  the  inci- 
„  „  dent  is  ended.     But  when  death  comes 

2  Henry 

iv.  ii.  iv.  to  his  bedside  and  says,  "  To-day,"  the 
250-5.  ^^   lifelong  indifference  vanishes  like 

1  Opus  cit.,  chap.  iv. 


Conscience  and  the  Conscienceless     129 

a  dream,  and  he  who  once  spared  neither  heaven  nor 
hell  in  his  jests  may  now  be  heard  call-  Henry  v. 
ing  in   agony   upon   God   to   avert  the  n- iJi-  9~41- 
doom  that  he  had  never  doubted  would  one  day  be 
his.     It  was   not  otherwise  with  Richard  III.  ;  it 
was  not  otherwise  with  Macbeth.     The  Thane  of 
Cawdor,  in  the  full  flood  of  his  ambition,  looking 
the  certainty  of  unending  torment  fairly  in  the  face, 
declares  that  if  he  could  only  be  assured  of  success 
in  this  life  he  would  not  hesitate  to  "  jump  the  life 
to   come."     The   denunciation   of  eternal   punish- 
ment,  frequently    proclaimed    to    be   a    Macbeth  1. 
specific   against  deliberate  surrender  to    vu- 7- 
criminal  suggestion,  proves  itself  powerless  in  just 
those  persons  for  whom  it  is  most  needed. 

There  is  much  else  in  Shakespeare's  portrayal  of 
criminals  that  it  would  be  of  advantage  to  study,  if  it 
were  not  that  anything  like  a  complete  treatment 
of  the  subject  would  take  us  too  far  from  the  main 
course  of  our  inquiry.  His  knowledge  is  by  no  means 
confined  to  the  moral  imbecile.  All  the  classes  into 
which  modern  authorities  have  divided  the  variety 
"  criminal "  he  knew  and  described,  adjusting  the 
kind  and  degree  of  their  emotional  reaction  to  the 
accomplished  deed  with  a  nicety  and  a  precision 
that  other  men  could  have  attained  only  after 
years  devoted  to  the  subject.  Again,  the  principle 
laid  down  by  Lombroso  and  Ferrero  :  "  In  general 
the  moral  physiognomy  of  the  born  female  crimi- 
nal approximates  strongly  to  that  of  the  male," * 

1  The  Female  Offender,  p.  187. 
9 


130     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

he  observed  and  illustrated  in  Macbeth,  King  Lear, 
Pericles  (Dionyza),  and  Cymbeline.  Even  the 
little  things  did  not  escape  his  notice.  His  thieves 
1  Henry  iv.  sPend  as  quickly  as  they  win.  His 
1.  ii.  37-  vagabonds  answer  to  the  description  of 
Locatelli :  "  Of  all  criminals  they  are 
the  most  jolly,  so  that  they  are  gladly  welcomed 
into  whatever  society  they  find  themselves  thrust."  1 
Indeed  we  may  assert  without  exaggeration  that 
there  is  no  one  principle  of  criminal  psychology 
that  is  at  once  important  and  assured,  no  proposi- 
tion that  would  command  the  assent  of  all  careful 
students  who  know  the  criminal  at  first  hand,  that 
cannot  be  derived  from  the  Shakespearean  drama. 

1  Quoted  by  Lombroso,  opus  cit.,  Vol.  I.,  p.  378. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  FREEDOM   OF  THE  WILL 

As  Shakespeare  contemplated  such  characters  as 
Richard  and  la  go,  the  profoundest  problems  of  life 
must  have  come  thronging  in  upon  his  mind.  Is  a 
man  born  to  crime,  because  insensible  to  goodness, 
responsible  for  what  he  does  ?  Can  he  properly  be 
blamed  for  acting  out  his  own  nature  ?  Again, 
what  of  the  inner  life  of  these  creatures  ?  They 
wreck  others  without  a  qualm  :  is  it  well  with 
them  ?  Finally,  when  they  look  upon  the  good 
man  with  contempt,  as  they  do,  is  there  any  basis 
in  the  nature  of  things  for  their  attitude  ?  Or  on 
what  they  themselves  would  admit  to  be  facts,  can 
they  be  shown  to  be  mistaken  ? 

As  the  outcome  of  his  studies,  Despine  lays  down 
the  corollary  that  the  moral  imbecile  is  a  com- 
pletely irresponsible  being.  Devoid  of  all  motive 
for  seeking  the  good,  he  has  no  freedom  to  choose 
between  the  better  and  the  worse,  and  without 
freedom  there  can  be  no  responsibility.  If  this 
last  statement  were  brought  forward  by  moralists 
as  a  principle  deduced  by  themselves  from  the  data 
gathered  during  their  investigations,  it  would  have 
to  be  ignored  in  a  study  that  aims  merely  to  pre- 


132     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

sent  the  phenomenology  of  the  moral  consciousness. 
But  the  believer  in  free-will  does  not  and  cannot 
separate  his  own  convictions  on  this  subject  from 
the  opinions  of  the  race.  All  men,  he  asserts,  and 
must  assert,  from  the  savage  to  the  sage,  regard 
freedom  as  an  essential  condition  of  responsibility  ; 
and  accordingly  where  they  impute  the  latter  they 
postulate  the  former.  An  assertion  of  this  nature 
properly  belongs  within  the  scope  of  our  inquiry. 
Our  examination  into  its  validity  will  call  for  an 
answer  to  two  questions  :  Does  the  common  man 
regard  himself  and  his  neighbor  as  free  ?  Does  he 
limit  responsibility  by  freedom  ? 

Before  entering  upon  a  study  of  the  subject,  it 
is  necessary  to  point  out  the  ambiguity  of  the  word 
freedom.  It  would  be  an  easy  matter  to  make  out 
a  list  of  ten  or  twelve  senses  in  which  it  is  used  in 
standard  ethical  treatises.  Fortunately  for  the 
reader,  many  of  them  may  be  neglected,  but  it  will 
be  impossible  to  take  a  single  step  without  distin- 
guishing at  least  four  possible  meanings  of  the 
term. 

In  the  first  place,  then,  the  will,  or,  better,  the 
person,  may  be  said  to  be  free  in  so  far  as  he  is 
able  to  do  what  he  desires  to  do,  and  to  refrain  from 
doing  what  he  desires  not  to  do.  This  freedom 
may  be  limited  by  the  forces  of  external  nature,  or 
the  superior  physical  strength  of  other  living 
beings.  It  may  also  be  limited  by  agencies  that 
are  represented,  more  or  less  completely,  in  our 
own  consciousness :  the  sneeze,  the  laugh,  or  the 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  133 

hysteria,  which,  let  us  try  our  utmost,  prove  to  be 
uncontrollable ;  the  impulses  of  suicidal  and  homi- 
cidal mania,  and  the  like,  that  sweep  a  man  away 
to  actions  which  never  for  an  instant  have  his  con- 
sent, and  which  he  views  as  he  performs  them  with 
grief  and  horror. 

In  a  second  sense  we  may  be  said  to  be  free 
when  we  are  able  to  bring  all  our  actions  into  con- 
formity with  our  permanent  desires.  The  sover- 
eignty of  the  passing  instant  is  broken.  We  act 
and  in  acting  know  we  shall  not  be  called  upon  to 
regret,  except  as  new  insight  may  show  our  deed 
to  be  something  other  than  we  had  thought  it.  For 
better  or  worse  our  destiny  is  what  in  our  coolest 
hours  we  would  have  it,  in  so  far  as  destiny  is 
determined  by  character. 

Again,  man  is  endowed  with  a  third  kind  of 
freedom  in  so  far  as  he  is  capable  of  becoming 
what  he  desires  to  be,  i.  e.,  in  so  far  as  he  has 
the  power  to  modify  and  transform  the  character 
with  which  he  was  endowed  at  birth.  This  he  can 
do  through  his  control  over  his  actions  and 
thoughts,  in  virtue  of  the  principle  that  impulses 
to  action,  if  inoperative  through  a  considerable 
portion  of  time,  tend  to  lose  their  strength  and  in 
many  cases  actually  disappear.  In  this  way  the 
clamorous  passion,  the  untamed  appetite,  cow- 
ardice, inertia,  and  selfishness,  may  be  gradually 
eliminated,  and  higher  elements  substituted  in  their 
place.  The  man  whose  early  life  was  a  chaos  of 
conflicting  impulses  may  thus  attain  ultimately  to 


134     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

the  peace  that  shall  never  be  broken  by  rebellion. 
"  '  T  is  in  ourselves  that  we  are  thus  or  thus.  Our 
la  ^  bodies  are  our  gardens,  to  the  which 
Othello  i.  our  wills  are  gardeners  ;  so  that  if  we 
m'  "  will  plant  nettles,  or  sow  lettuce,  set 
hyssop  and  weed  up  thyme,  supply  it  with  one 
gender  of  herbs,  or  distract  it  with  many,  either  to 
have  it  sterile  with  idleness,  or  manured  with 
industry,  why,  the  power  and  corrigible  authority 
of  this  lies  in  our  wills."  The  condition  upon 
which  this  form  of  freedom  rests  is  the  will  to  use 
M.  for  M.  it.  "  Look,  what  I  will  not,  that  I  can- 
n.  ii.  51.  not  do,"  says  Angelo,  with  profound 
truth.  Whoever  is  sufficiently  desirous  of  growing 
thyme  or  lettuce  to  manure  the  soil  with  industry 
shall  have  his  reward.  For  others  there  can  be 
only  weeds. 

The  denial  of  freedom  in  any  of  these  forms  is 
the  dogma  of  fatalism  in  the  proper  significance  of 
that  much-abused  term.  Fatalism  as  we  find  it  in 
the  popular  thought  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  and  in 
Mohammedan  theology,  is  primarily  a  doctrine  of 
what  happens  to  man,  but  it  may  be  applied  with 
equal  propriety  to  what  he  does.  It  asserts  that 
the  will  is  not  a  factor  in,  but  merely  an  impotent 
spectator  of  the  struggle  of  life ;  that  nothing  comes 
to  pass  because  we  determine  it  shall  be.  (Edipus, 
for  instance,  is  fated  to  kill  his  father  and  marry 
his  mother.  It  would  have  made  no  difference 
how  firmly  he  determined  never  to  take  a  human 
life,  and  how  tenaciously  he  held  to  his  purpose. 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  135 

He  and  his  father  must  meet,  if  not  in  the  narrow- 
pass,  then  somewhere  else;  and  if  (Edipus  had  still 
remained  firm,  his  will  would  have  been  stricken 
with  paralysis  and,  as  in  an  attack  of  homicidal 
mania  the  mother  may  plunge  the  knife  into  her 
child's  heart  in  the  very  instant  in  which,  with 
agonized  cries,  she  urges  him  to  flee,  so  (Edipus 
would  have  beheld  his  own  hand  striking  the  blow 
that  he  was  powerless  to  stay.  The  will  refuses 
its  consent ;  but  the  deed  is  done  in  despite  of  the 
will. 

It  is  obvious  that  for  actions  of  this  kind  no  man 
can  be  held  responsible.  For  responsibility  means 
that  a  man  is  the  proper  object  of  moral  judgment 
because  of  his  deed.  Now,  moral  judgment  is 
directed  to  character,  and  here  is  an  action  that 
is  not  the  outcome  of  the  character,  and  that  sheds 
no  light  whatever  upon  the  direction  in  which  it 
is  moving.  All  members  of  the  European  races 
recognize  this  fact  to-day,  and  all  hold  that  at 
least  some  actions  are  not  fated.  As  no  contem- 
porary moralist  would  dispute  this  statement,  there 
is  no  need  of  dwelling  upon  it  at  greater  length. 

But  many  philosophers  assert  the  existence  of  a 
fourth  kind  of  freedom,  freedom  from  the  law  of 
causation.  When  a  certain  course  of  action  is 
adopted  or  decided  upon,  they  hold  that  this 
decision  or  determination  has  no  cause.  The  idea 
of  doing  it  suggested  itself,  of  course,  in  accordance 
with  the  laws  of  association ;  the  idea  of  the  rejected 
alternative  presented  itself  to  the  mind  in  the  same 


136     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

way.  But  the  act  of  acceptance  or  rejection  is  itself 
causeless ;  in  vain  would  you  seek  in  the  man's 
character  or  past  habits,  interests  or  purposes,  for 
the  ground  of  its  being.  If  it  were  possible  for  every 
condition,  external  and  internal,  to  be  repeated, 
there  would  be  the  same  chance  that  the  second 
time  the  acceptance  would  be  replaced  by  rejection. 
This  view  is  called  indeterminism. 

A  large  number  of  authorities  maintain,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  the  law  of  causation  holds  without 
exception  in  the  mental  as  in  the  physical  world. 
In  so  far  as  they  believe  in  the  autonomy  of  the 
will,  as  asserted  in  the  preceding  paragraphs,  they 
hold  that  a  man's  actions  are  the  outcome  of  his 
character,  as  it  is  at  the  time.  A  person  may 
gradually  change  his  character,  if  he  wishes  to ;  he 
can  conquer  his  passions,  appetites,  and  bad  habits, 
if  he  will.  But  the  condition  of  his  even  attempting 
it  is  a  wish  to  do  so.  And  if  the  opposition  is  strong, 
no  vague,  weak  longings  will  suffice ;  the  change 
must  be  desired  intensely.  Now  all  the  elements 
of  his  character,  including  his  desire  for  improve- 
ment, must  have  had  a  beginning  in  time ;  he  who 
"  has  them,"  as  we  say,  did  not  create  them,  for 
they  are  the  inmost  parts  of  himself.  They  arise 
and  grow  according  to  laws  that  we  did  not  make 
and  cannot  alter.  The  doctrine  that  maintains  the 
unbroken  continuity  of  the  causal  series  is  called 
determinism.  We  now  see  that  it  has  two  forms, 
which  may  be  called  fatalistic  and  autonomic.  Our 
problem   may   accordingly  be   stated   as   follows : 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  137 

What  attitude  does  the  common  man  take,  whether 
virtually  or  explicitly,  to  the  position  of  autonomic 
determinism  ? 

It  will  be  obvious  that  determinism  must  affirm 
and  indeterminism  deny  the  possibility  of  fore- 
casting the  actions  of  human  beings.  Not  but 
that  indeterminism  may  be  compatible  with  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  prophecy.  No  man  can  act  ex- 
cept upon  suggestions  that  come  to  him,  and  the 
appearance  of  these  suggestions  in  the  arena  of 
consciousness  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  rigidly 
determined.  Furthermore  —  and  this  has  often 
been  overlooked  —  indeterminists  are  entitled  to 
hold  that  a  man  cannot  act  upon  suggestions  that 
do  not  appeal  to  him ; 1  the  freedom  they  contend 
for  consists  solely  in  an  uncaused  choice  between 
alternatives  that  really  attract.  Thus  an  indeter- 
minist  does  not  stultify  himself  when  he  declares 
his  friend  to  be  incapable  of  a  falsehood,  provided 
he  knows  him  well  enough  to  feel  justified  in  assert- 
ing that  the  opportunity  to  gain  an  end  through 
lying  would  never  arouse  in  his  friend  even  the 
slightest  inclination  to  take  advantage  of  it. 
Where  contending  desires  dispute  the  field,  how- 
ever, there,  if  indeterminism  is  right,  prevision  be- 
comes absolutely  impossible.  No  one  can  tell,  at 
any  rate  in  matters  of  right  and  wrong,  how  such 
a  preference  will  turn.  Our  problem  accordingly 
takes  this  form :   In  cases  of  genuine  moral  con- 

1  So  Despine.  Cf.  James,  Principles  of  Psychology,  II.,  577, 
note. 


138      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

flict,  does  the  common  man  ever  consider  himself 
capable  of  forecasting  the  outcome  ? 

The  answers  given  by  Shakespeare  to  this  ques- 
tion are  strikingly  uniform  and  consistent  through- 
out. They  are  formulated  once  for  all  in  a  speech 
of  Warwick  in  Henry  IV.  The  king  has  been  re- 
calling how  the  deposed  Richard  long  ago  fore- 
told Northumberland's  present  treason.  Warwick 
replies : 

"  There  is  a  history  in  all  men's  lives, 
Figuring   the   nature   of   the  times  de- 
ceased ; 
The  which  observed,  a  man  may  proph- 
esy, 
With  a  near  aim,  of  the  main  chance  of 

things 
As  yet  not  come  to  life,  which  in  their 

seeds 
And  weak  beginnings  lie  intreasured. 
2  Henry  IV.       Such  things  become  the  hatch  and  brood 
III.  i.  80.  of  time ; 

And  by  the  necessary  form  of  this 
King  Richard  might  create  a  perfect  guess 
That  great  Northumberland,  then  false 

to  him, 
Would  of  that  seed  grow  to  a  greater 

falseness ; 
Which  should  not  find  a  ground  to  root 

upon, 
Unless  on  you. 

King.   Are  these  things  then  necessities  ? 
Then  let  us  meet  them  like  necessities." 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  139 

This  passage  contains  a  distinct  declaration  that 
conduct  is  the  necessary  outcome  of  character,  and 
accordingly  in  so  far  as  we  know  the  character  we 
can  foretell  the  conduct.  Since  we  can  never  gain 
a  complete  acquaintance  with  the  inner  life,  we 
can,  it  is  true,  only  prophesy  "  with  a  near  aim." 
But  no  hint  is  given  that  our  power  of  prevision  is 
confined  to  hopeless  iniquity  and  inflexible  saint- 
hood. Northumberland  himself,  while  a  weak  and 
unprincipled  man,  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
wholly  bad.  His  acquaintances  seemingly  had  no 
reason  to  doubt  that  better  impulses  were  known 
to  him ;  the  question  with  them  was,  would  they 
predominate  ?  Richard  and  Warwick  evidently 
thought  not.  And  yet  on  the  indeterministic  theory 
there  is  no  basis  even  for  conjecture.  The  chances 
are  one  to  one,  and  if  the  range  of  your  calculation 
is  sufficiently  extensive  that  proportion  will  be 
realized.  But  any  one  person  may  have  a  run  of 
luck,  good  or  bad,  as  he  may  at  rouge-et-noir,  and 
therefore  all  prediction  about  individuals  is 
impossible. 

It  may  of  course  be  objected  that  this  statement 
of  Warwick  is  a  mere  obiter  dictum,  or  that  at  all 
events  we  have  no  more  right  to  hold  Shakespeare's 
other  characters  responsible  for  this  expression  of 
opinion  than  for  good  old  Duncan's  absurdity : 
«'  There 's  no  art  to  find  the  mind's  con-  Macbeth  I. 
struction  in  the  face."  The  principle  on  iv- 12- 
which  this  objection  is  based  is  perfectly  sound. 
Here,  however,  it  avails  nothing,  for  one   of   the 


140     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

most  common  phenomena  in  our  dramas  is  the 
prediction  of  human  action.  Almost  any  of  the  his- 
tories or  tragedies  would  supply  satisfactory  illus- 
trative material. 

In  Othello,  Act  II.,  scene  i.,  line  254,  Roderigo 
declares  to  Iago,  "I  cannot  believe  that  in  her  [Des- 
demona]  ;  she 's  full  of  most  blessed  condition." 
This  certainly  looks  like  the  spirit  of  prophecy ; 
but  we  shall  do  well  not  to  treat  it  as  evidence  of 
the  deterministic  attitude,  for  it  may  mean :  Des- 
demona  is  absolutely  incapable  of  temptation  in 
this  direction.  But  when  Lodovico,  witnessing  the 
last  wild  outbreak  of  Othello's  rage,  asks  in  sur- 
Otheiio  IV.  prise  :  "  Is  this  the  nature  whom  passion 
i.  276.  could   not   shake  ? "   but   one   inference 

from  his  words  seems  possible.  For  the  very  point 
of  the  question  lies  in  the  implication  that  Othello 
is  not  a  passionless  nature,  not  one  whom  passion 
never  tried  to  shake,  but  rather  one  against  whose 
granite  will  its  waves  had  hitherto  dashed  in  vain. 
Again  we  seem  to  have  an  unequivocal  statement 
in  Cassio's  exclamation  when  Othello  falls  by  the 
stroke  of  his  own  dagger, 

"  This  did  I  fear,  but  thought  he  had  no 
V.  ii.  359.  weapon  ; 

For  he  was  great  of  heart." 

Possibly  it  may  be  objected  that  Cassio  means  no 
more  than  that  he  had  considered  the  chances  in 
favor  of  suicide  to  be  even,  but  I  venture  to  assert 
such  an  interpretation  would  have  surprised  Cassio. 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  141 

The  tragic  interest  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra  cen- 
tres in  the  downfall  of  a  nature  rich  in  possibilities 
for  good.  The  Roman  triumvir  is  no  moral  imbe- 
cile, nor  is  he  one  condemned  by  a  hereditary 
curse  to  live  only  for  the  passing  moment.  Once 
he  could  bear  deprivation  and  suffering  in  the  pur- 
suit of  power  and  fame.  "  Antony,  leave  thy  las- 
civious wassails,"  cries  Octavius : 

"  When  thou  once 
"Wast  beaten  from  Modena,  where  thou 

slew'st 
Hirtius  and  Pansa,  consuls,  at  thy  heel 
Did  famine  follow ;  whom  thou  fought'st 

against, 
Though      daintily     brought     up,     with 

patience  more 
Than  savages  could  suffer :   thou  didst 

drink 
The   stale    of    horses,  and    the    gilded       a.  and  C. 

puddle  I- iT-  55. 

Which  beasts  would  cough  at :  thy  palate 

then  did  deign 
The  roughest  berry  on  the  rudest  hedge ; 

And  all  this  .... 
Was  borne  so  like  a  soldier,  that  thy 

cheek 
So  much  as  lank'd  not." 

The  ambition  which  enabled  Antony  at  that  time  to 
endure  even  to  the  uttermost  never  became  to  him 
an  unsubstantial  dream.     Furthermore,  he  had  a 


142     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

genius  for  friendship,  the  basis  of  continuous 
wedded  love  ;  witness  the  devotion  he  enkindled 
in  his  followers.  He  was  generous  even  to  his 
worst  enemies,  his  disloyal  friends.  When  his 
most  trusted  general,  Enobarbus,  forsook  him  for 
the  winning  side,  he  sent  after  the  fugitive  his 
Act  IV.  chests  and   treasures,  which  the  latter 

scene  v.  had  been  unable  to  take  with  him.  He 
never  ceased  to  realize  his  own  degradation.  We 
might  suspect  it  from  this  little  incident  of 
Enobarbus'  treasures,  if  other  proof  were  wanting. 
Once  these  forces  almost  dominated  his  life. 
There  was  a  time  when,  had  he  been  wedded  to 
an  Octavia,  he  might  have  ruled  his  share  of  the 
world,  another  Augustus.  But  in  the  toils  of 
Cleopatra  he  becomes  a  different  man.  One  who 
knew  him  as  he  once  had  been  wonders  to  see 
him  slight  the  most  important  business  in  order 

that   "  not   a   minute   of    [their]    lives 

should  stretch  without  some  pleasure." 
No  one  seems  to  think  of  the  chance  theory ;  the 
only  explanation  which  an  old  follower  can  sug- 
gest is  that  he  is  much  changed.  Enobarbus,  hav- 
ing watched  stage  by  stage  the  development  of  the 
new  Antony,  does  not  hesitate  to  predict  the  out- 
come of  the  marriage  with  Octavia.  "  He  will 
to  his  Egyptian  dish  again:    then  shall  the  sighs 

of  Octavia  blow  the  fire  up  in  Caesar  ; 

and  that  which  is  the  strength  of  their 
amity  shall  prove  the  immediate  author  of  their 
variance."     Enobarbus  includes  three  complicated 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  143 

personalities,  it  will  be  observed,  within  the  scope 
of  his  prophecy.  Waiving  all  discussion  as  to  the 
nature  of  his  data  with  respect  to  the  strong,  single- 
minded  triumvir  and  his  noble  sister,  he  certainly 
could  not  count  in  the  case  of  Antony  upon  the 
total  destruction  of  the  desire  to  play  a  great  part 
on  the  world's  stage,  of  regard  for  the  interests  of 
his  followers,  of  honor  and  self-respect.  For  still 
it  remained  true  that  now  and  then  a  "  Roman 
thought "  would  strike  him,  pathetic  witness  of  the 
impulses  still  stirring  within  his  soul.  But  the 
shrewd  old  general  believed  he  could  foretell,  when 
the  two  alternatives  were  presented  to  his  master, 
which  would  be  chosen. 

The  only  phase  of  the  problem  of  the  determina- 
tion of  human  conduct  that  Shakespeare's  people 
ever  discuss  is  the  causes  of  character.  Of  the 
various  theories  that  the  ingenuity  of  man  has 
put  together  the  two  that  are  most  in  favor  are 
heredity  and  the  influence  of  the  stars.  It  is  only 
on  the  latter  hypothesis  that  Kent  can  explain 
the  difference  between  Cordelia  and  her  sisters. 
Gloucester  goes  farther;  the  heavenly  bodies  can 
actually  change  a  character  already  formed.  Ed- 
mund, the  superior  intellect  of  the  play,  denies  this 
and  indeed  the  entire  theory  of  "  spherical  predom- 
inance." For  this  reason  he  has  been  supposed  to 
be  an  indeterminist.  Such  an  inference,  however, 
ignores  the  existence  of  a  large  number  of  alterna- 
tives, any  one  of  which  he  may  have  held  ;  as  the 
influence  of  education  and  surroundings,  the  mirac- 


144     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ulous  interference  of  God  or  the  devil,  and  much 
else.  If  Edmund  believed  that  natural  endowment 
is  the  most  important  factor  in  the  making  of  char- 
acter, by  the  side  of  which  nurture  is  a  compara- 
tively insignificant  though  not  entirely  impotent 
force,  natural  endowment  in  turn  being  determined 
largely  though  not  exclusively  by  heredity,  he  will 
be  in  agreement  with  what  seems  to  have  been  the 
views  of  a  large  number  of  Shakespeare's  people. 
Some  of  these  in  their  surprise  at  the  failure  of 
heredity  in  a  particular  instance  give  the  most 
unequivocal  expression  of  belief  in  the  potency  of 
innate  volitional  capacities.1 

On  this  subject  I  believe  we  for  once  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  dramatist's  own  opinions.  It  is  an 
invariable  rule  with  him  that,  however  dark  the 
course  of  a  story,  its  final  scene  shall  close  with 
an  outlook  upon  a  better  world.  Thus  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet  the  death  of  the  lovers  leads  to  a  recon- 
ciliation between  two  great  families.  In  Macbeth 
and  King  Lear  the  floods  of  misrule  and  civil  war 
finally  subside,  leaving  in  possession  of  the  throne 
rulers  strong,  honorable,  and  humane,  who  —  on 
the  deterministic  theory — may  be  expected  to  in- 
augurate an  era  of  good  government.  Even  in 
Othello  we  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
Iago's  career  is  ended ;  he  can  poison  no  more 
lives. 

1  Rich.  III.,  I.  iii.  229-231 ;  Rich.  II.,  V.  iii.  60-63  ;  All's  Well, 
I.  ii.  19-22  ;  Lear,  IV.  iii.  34-37  ;  Timon,  IV.  iii.  271-4  ;  Pericles, 
IV.  iii.  23-25  ;  Tempest,  IV.  i.  188-189. 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  145 

This  rule  seems  at  first  sight  grossly  violated  in 
All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and  that  in  the  very 
teeth  of  the  promise  conveyed  in  its  title.  The  end 
which  is  to  be  so  delightful  is  the  reconciliation  of 
Bertram  with  Helena  after  his  flight  from  her 
upon  their  forced  marriage.  Now,  Helena  is  one 
of  the  most  perfect  of  Shakespeare's  characters. 
She  represents  that  combination  of  strength  and 
devotion  which,  as  we  have  seen,  is  repeatedly  de- 
clared to  be  the  complete  embodiment  of  moral 
beauty.  Though  living  as  a  dependant  in  a  titled 
family  she  has  the  intelligence  and  courage  to 
recognize  herself  as  the  equal  of  the  young  mas- 
ter of  the  house.  To  obtain  his  love  she  risks  the 
displeasure  of  her  foster-mother,  death  at  the  king's 
court,  and,  what  means  most  to  her,  dishonor 
through  misinterpretation  of  her  motives.  Con- 
stantly called  upon  to  act  in  circumstances  of 
great  difficulty  she  exhibits  a  quickness  of  appre- 
hension, tact,  decision,  and  firmness,  that  alone 
would  render  her  a  marked  character.  Her  pu- 
rity of  mind  is  never  doubtful  in  the  most  delicate 
situations.  Sincerity  shines  through  every  deed. 
It  wins  at  the  outset  the  spectator  of  the  play,  who 
knows  from  the  moment  of  her  appearance  that 
this  young  girl  is  no  adventuress.  It  wins  the 
king.  Even  total  strangers  trust  her.  As  her 
sincerity  evokes  confidence,  her  sweetness  and 
beauty  procure  her  the  love  of  man  and  woman. 

So  much  for  Helena.  "Look  you  now  what 
follows."     Bertram  is  indeed  a  man  of   courage, 

10 


146     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

spirit,  and  ability,  but  that  is  the  end.  In  mat- 
ters that  do  not  concern  war  he  must  be  set  down 
as  a  weak,  gullible,  and  withal  unprincipled  cad. 
As  Hamlet  reveals  his  ideals  through  his  friendship 
with  Horatio,  so  we  are  entitled  to  infer  the  worst 
from  the  ascendency  that  Parolles  gains  over  Ber- 
tram. In  Hamlet,  ideals  never  get  worked  out  into 
life ;  it  is  the  reverse  with  Bertram.  His  com- 
panions at  court,  won  at  a  glance  by  the  loveliness 
of  Helena,  are  more  than  willing  to  marry  the 
physician's  daughter  whom  the  king's  gratitude 
has  permitted  to  select  a  husband.  He  who  knows 
her  best  alone  refuses.  When  forced  under  the 
yoke  by  the  fiat  of  the  king  which  neither  party 
may  resist,  he  follows  up  blindness  and  pride  by  a 
display  of  insolence,  and  the  insolence  is  rather 
that  of  a  child  than  of  a  man.  His  intrigue  with 
Diana  after  his  flight  from  Paris  into  Italy  is  as 
discreditable  as  an  intrigue  can  be.  He  seeks  to 
gain  his  will  by  promises  that  he  does  not  intend 
to  keep.  Then  confronted  with  the  demand  that 
he  redeem  his  pledge,  he  turns  and  twists  to  avoid 
Diana's  charges,  blackening  her  character  first  in 
one  way  then  in  another.  A  study  of  the  details 
of  this  episode  will  only  serve  to  deepen  the  un- 
pleasant impression  made  by  its  outlines. 

Such,  then,  are  the  two  principal  characters  of 
the  play,  a  strong,  noble  woman  and  a  spoiled, 
unprincipled  boy.  These  are  the  people  whose 
union  for  life  is  expected  to  call  forth  the  excla- 
mation :    Well   done !     No   wonder  most  readers 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  147 

turn  away  in  disgust.  The  plot  seems  to  have 
descended  to  the  plane  of  a  summer  novel  where 
the  only  object  is  to  get  two  people  married. 
Some  readers  may  indeed  comfort  themselves  with 
the  thought  that  Helena  will  reform  her  wayward 
husband.  But  that  appears  like  a  vain  hope  ;  for 
reformation,  as  a  process  of  cultivation,  must  have 
something  to  work  upon.  Nor,  looking  at  the  case 
in  the  abstract,  is  the  percentage  of  success  in  this 
line  of  activity  great  enough  to  inspire  with  a  high 
degree  of  confidence  —  let  us  say  a  father  with 
marriageable  daughters. 

Nevertheless,  the  play,  I  believe,  is  neither  "  dis- 
appointing," "  perplexing,"  nor  "  profoundly  im- 
moral." All  does  end  well.  The  difficulties  in 
which  the  poet  has  involved  himself  are  due  to 
his  faithfulness  to  the  original  sources  of  the 
plot ;  but  he  has  found  a  solution,  and  one  that  is 
simplicity  itself.  He  merely  makes  us  acquainted 
with  the  characters  of  Bertram's  father  and 
mother. 

The  distinguishing  traits  of  the  Countess  are 
penetration,  unselfishness,  and  the  capacity  for 
proportioning  affection  to  real  merit.  This  last 
she  possesses  in  an  extraordinary  degree ;  it  frees 
her  from  all  prejudices  of  aristocratic  birth ;  it 
makes  her  love  Helena  as  her  own  daughter ;  it 
drives  her  to  cast  off  for  a  time  her  son  when  he 
exhibits  a  pride,  an  insensibility  to  virtue  in  the  low 
born,  and  a  hardness  of  heart  that  are  alien  to  her 
own  nature.    Her  philosophy  of  life  makes  the  love 


148     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

of  Helena  for  Bertram  seem  as  normal  as  if  the 
girl  had  been  the  daughter  of  one  of  her  titled 
neighbors. 

The  Count  is  dead,  but  his  portrait  has  been  care- 
fully preserved  for  us  as  it  lived  in  the  memory  of 
the  king. 

"  In  his  youth 
He  had  the  wit  which  I  can  well  observe 
To-day  in  our  young  lords ;  but  they  may 

jest 
Till  their  own  scorn  return  to  them  un- 
noted 
Ere  they  can  hide  their  levity  in  honour : 
So  like  a  courtier,  contempt  nor  bitterness 
Were  in  his  pride,  or  sharpness ;  if  they 

All's  Well  were, 

that  Ends  His  equal  had  awaked  them,  and  his 
Well  honour, 

'  u'  "  Clock  to  itself,  knew  the  true  minute  when 
Exception  bid  him  speak,  and  at  this  time 
His  tongue  obey'd  his  hand :    who  were 

below  him 
He  used  as  creatures  of  another  place 
And  bow'd  his  eminent  top  to  their  low 

ranks, 
Making  them  proud,  as  his  nobility 
In  their  poor  praise  he  humbled."  1 

The  happy  issue  of  the  plot  is  thus  entrusted 
to  the  workings  of  the  principle  of  heredity.  A 
hint  of   this  solution   is   conveyed   in   the  words 

1  The  text  of  line  44  follows  a  conjecture  of  Hudson. 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  149 

with  which  the  king  greets  Bertram  on  the  latter's 
presentation  to  him. 

"  Youth,  thou  bear'st  thy  father's  face ; 
Frank  nature,  rather  curious  than  in  haste, 
Hath  well  composed  thee.     Thy  father's    L.  19. 

moral  parts 
Mayst  thou  inherit  too ! " 

We  may  look  forward  with  confidence  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  this  hope.  The  boy  has  developed  slowly, 
and  his  growth  in  the  past  has  been  in  part 
retarded  by  unfavorable  influences  from  without. 
But  now  that  the  proper  environment  has  been 
supplied,  his  true  nature  may  be  trusted  to  appear. 
For  the  existence  within  him  of  the  potentialities 
of  all  goodness  is  guaranteed  by  the  character  of 
his  ancestry. 

In  a  more  famous  play  Shakespeare  has  taken 
the  greatest  pains  to  record  his  conviction  that 
no  absolute  break  is  possible  between  our  present 
and  our  past.  The  instantaneous  transformation 
of  Prince  Hal  from  the  boon  companion  of  roy- 
sterers  and  cut-purses  to  the  wise,  self-restrained, 
and  just  king,  was  regarded  by  the  chroniclers 
of  his  time  as  the  result  of  a  miracle.  But  this 
view  of  the  matter  is  excluded  with  the  greatest 
care  in  the  dramas  that  describe  his  life.  Every 
salient  trait  in  the  character  of  the  king  is  either 
exhibited  or  asserted  as  existing  in  the  2  Hen.  IV. 
prince:   affection,   generosity,  the   am-    *^' ™'£H£ 


150     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

1  Hen.  IV.  bition  that  selects  the  noblest  models 
v.  v.  22-31.  for  emulation,  regard  for  the  life  and 
1  Hen.  iv.      welfare  of  others,  and  hatred  of  sham 

III.  ii.  132-  -,    ,  •  tt- 

158  and  hypocrisy.     His  very  excesses  are 

v.  ii.  52-69.  represented  as  in  part  the  outcome  of 

1  Hen.  iv.  some  of  his  best  qualities  :  his  contempt 
v.  1.  83-100.  for  £ne  artificial  distinctions  that  are 
™H^n"  ^'  consecrated  by  court  tradition  ;  his  love 

IV.  iv.  31-  J  ' 

32.  of    the    vigorous    London    lower-class 

2  Hen.  iv.      life  ;  his  enjoyment  of  wit-combats  and 
'  u  a   hearty  laugh.     Nor  were   his  frolics 

ever  allowed  to  degenerate  into  mischief.  Only 
one  of  them  is  of  a  really  doubtful  character,  and 
in  that  the  money  which  he  helps  to  steal,  or 
rather  permits  to  be  stolen,  in  order  to  perpetrate 
a  joke  upon  Jack  Falstaff,  is  returned  to  its  owner 
the  next  day. 

Had  this  play  been  the  creation  of  a  slightly 
later  period,  such  hints  would  have  been  judged 
sufficient.  The  mature  Shakespeare  is  perfectly 
content  to  be  misunderstood  by  those  who  cannot 
or  will  not  supplement  the  detached  and  momen- 
tary pictures  of  his  score  of  scenes  by  images 
of  a  continuous  life  of  which  the  fragments  upon 
the  stage  are  but  the  barest  suggestion.  As  it 
is,  however,  we  are  supplied  with  a  clean-cut 
declaration  of  the  doctrine  of  natural  development 
in  its  application  to  the  newly  crowned  king.  And 
as  if  to  give  it  the  maximum  of  emphasis  it  is  put 
into  the  mouths  of  two  churchmen. 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  151 

Ely.     The   strawberry  grows  underneath 
the  nettle 

And  wholesome  berries  thrive  and  ripen 
best 

Neighbour' d  by  fruit  of  baser  "quality : 

And  so  the  prince  obscured  his  contem- 
plation 

Under  the  veil   of   wildness ;  which,    no 

doubt,  Henry  V.I. 

1.  60. 

Grew  like  the  summer  grass,  fastest  by 

night, 
Unseen,  yet  crescive  in  his  faculty. 

Canterbury.     It  must  be  so ;  for  miracles 

are  ceased ; 
And  therefore  we  must  needs  admit  the 

means 
How  things  are  perfected. 

A  simple  application,  this,  of  the  principle  that 
men  do  not  gather  grapes  from  thorns  or  figs  from 
thistles.  But  it  totally  ignores  the  possibility  of 
that  inner  creation  of  motive  force  out  of  nothing 
for  which  indeterminism  stands. 

It  may  be  of  interest  to  note  further  that  the 
just  quoted  confession  of  faith  denies  in  the  most 
unqualified  manner  one  of  the  fundamental  tenets 
of  the  Elizabethan  church,  St.  Augustine's  doctrine 
of  grace.  The  official  creed  of  the  church  as  for- 
mulated in  the  Articles  of  1563  affirms  :  "  The  con- 
dition of  man  after  the  fall  of  Adam  is  such,  that 
he  cannot  turn  and  prepare  himself  by  his  own 
natural  strength  and  good  works,  to  faith  and  call- 


i$i     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ing  upon  God.  Wherefore  we  have  no  power  to  do 
good  works,  pleasant  and  acceptable  to  God,  with- 
out the  grace  of  God  by  Christ  preventing  us,  that 
we  may  have  a  good  will,  and  working  in  us,  when 
we  have  that  good  will."  Again  the  churchmen 
speak  for  Shakespeare.  As  he  explains  the  crimes 
of  the  moral  imbecile  without  invoking  the  agency 
of  the  devil,  so  he  describes  the  unfolding  life  of 
the  noble  soul  in  terms  that  leave  as  little  room  for 
miracle  as  for  chance.  Was  he  not  in  this  respect 
as  far  in  advance  of  the  theologians  of  his  age  as 
in  his  conception  of  mental  disease  he  was  beyond 
the  vast  majority  of  its  physicians  ? 

To  return  from  Shakespeare  to  Shakespeare's 
people :  wherever  we  have  an  opportunity  to  make 
the  test  we  find  them  manifesting  a  belief  in  the 
determination  of  volition  by  character.  Usually 
they  think  of  character  as  mainly  the  outcome  of 
heredity ;  sometimes,  however,  they  attribute  it 
rather  vaguely  to  the  miraculous  interposition  of 
supersensible  powers ;  occasionally,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  the  stars.  With  but  two  exceptions, 
which  will  be  considered  below,  the  notion  of  a 
causeless  volition  apparently  never  even  enters 
their  minds. 

Does  the  world  look  upon  the  man  whose  con- 
duct can  be  foretold  as  a  morally  irresponsible 
being  ?  The  answer  to  this,  the  second  of  our  two 
questions,  is  as  clear  and  unequivocal  as  the  answer 
to  the  first.  In  its  approbation  and  reprobation  of 
actions  it  asks  only,  do  they  really  proceed  from 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  153 

the  character  ?  It  takes  for  granted  that  the  bad. 
will  is  bad,  the  good  will,  good,  however  they  came 
to  be  such  ;  in  other  words,  that  questions  of  quality 
or  worth  do  not  turn  on  theories  of  origin.  Con- 
sult, in  verification,  that  richest  mine  of  ethical  in- 
formation, King  Lear.  Nothing  but  a  miracle 
could  make  the  King  of  France  believe  Cordelia 
capable  of  a  great  wrong ;  her  nobility  of  character 
is  for  that  reason  none  the  less  genuine  and  ad- 
mirable in  his  eyes.  Cordelia,  the  Fool,  and  ulti- 
mately Albany,  understand  the  nature  of  Goneril 
through  and  through,  and  the  two  former  foretell 
her  actions  as  with  a  prophet's  vision.  Yet  this 
woman  appears  to  them  no  less  hateful  and  despic- 
able on  that  ground.  Kent  seems  to  believe  that 
the  characters  of  the  three  sisters  are  the  product 
of  stellar  influences;  this  does  not  modify  his 
judgment  of  what  they  are.  Indeed,  reprobation 
or  admiration  may  be  concomitant  with  an  ex- 
plicit recognition  of  the  deterministic  position. 
Richard  III.,  for  instance,  is  declared  by  Queen 
Margaret  to  have  been 

"  Seal'd  in  [his]  nativity  Bichard  m. 

The  slave  of  nature  and  the  son  of  hell."      *•  *"•  229- 

It  does  not  occur  to  Margaret  that  this  makes  him 
any  less  loathsome.  He  is  what  he  is,  a  foul  blot 
on  creation.  Had  his  crimes  been  from  first  to 
last  the  outcome  of  chance,  he  could  have  been  no 
more  base  or  vile.  So  Timon  judges  the  notoriety- 
seeking,  pseudo-cynic  Apemantus. 


1 54     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

"  Thy  father  .  .  . 
Timon  IV.  •  •  •  in  spite  put  stuff 

iii.  271.  To  some  she  beggar  and  compounded  thee 

Poor  rogue  hereditary." 

The  rogue  hereditary  is  none  the  less  a  rogue. 

The  average  layman,  then,  finds  nothing  incom- 
patible with  moral  approbation  in  the  conception 
of  conduct  as  the  necessary  outcome  of  character. 
But  certain  speculative  intellects  have  discovered 
difficulties  in  the  deterministic  doctrine  of  respon- 
sibility, and  have  asserted  in  consequence  that 
a  caused  volition  has  no  moral  value.  This  view 
finds  expression  in  Shakespeare's  plays  on  two  dif- 
ferent occasions.  Hamlet,  waiting  in  company  with 
Horatio  for  his  father's  ghost,  moralizes  as  follows 
upon  the  Danish  reputation  for  drunkenness : 

"  So,  oft  it  chances  in  particular  men, 
That  for  some  vicious  mole  of  nature  in 

them, 
As,  in  their  birth  —  wherein  they  are  not 

guilty, 
Since  nature  cannot  choose  his  origin  — 
Hamlet  I.  ........ 

»▼.  23.  That  these  men, 

Carrying,  I  say,  the  stamp  of  one  defect, 
Being  nature's  livery,  or  fortune's  star,  — 
Their  virtues  else  —  ... 
Shall   in   the   general   censure   take    cor- 
ruption 
From  that  particular  fault." 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  155 

Whether  it  is  an  accident  that  this  opinion  is  put 
into  the  mouth  of  a  university  student  I  cannot 
say ;  but  I  have  often  wondered  whether  we  may 
not  suppose  that  Hamlet  picked  it  up  from  his  lec- 
tures in  philosophy  at  Wittenberg.  At  all  events, 
I  can  find  no  satisfactory  evidence  that  he  uses  any 
such  principle  in  his  concrete  judgments  of  men 
and  women.  His  old  friends,  Rosen-  . 
crantz  and  G-uildenstern,  he  declares  he 
will  trust  as  he  will  adders  fang'd.  At  the  same 
time  he  justifies  his  own  action  in  sending  them  to 
certain  death  on  the  ground  that  they 
richly  deserved  their  fate.  We  can  ex- 
tract indeterminism  from  this  combination  of  cir- 
cumstances only  by  assuming  that,  through  a  long 
succession  of  free  choices  of  evil,  these  two  young 
men  had  completely  seared  their  conscience,  so  that 
at  last  their  conduct  had  become  rigidly  determined. 
The  guilt  now  imputed  to  them  might  thus  really 
attach  to  their  past  decisions.  Whether  this  was 
the  ground  on  which  Hamlet  condemned  them  so 
mercilessly,  he  unfortunately  neglects  to  inform  us. 
It  would  not  be  fair,  however,  to  emphasize  too 
much  the  difference  between  the  philosopher  and 
the  layman.  Their  brains  are  of  the  same  clay. 
It  will,  therefore,  not  be  wonderful  if  an  echo  of 
the  philosopher's  perplexities  is  heard  now  and 
then  in  the  world  where  men  of  action  live  and 
work.  Shakespeare's  second  and  last  apologist 
for  the  criminal  by  heredity  would  count  himself  a 
member  of  this  latter  class. 


156     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

In  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Act  I.,  scene  iv.,  Oc- 
tavius  and  Lepidus  are  discovered  discussing  the 
failings  of  their  fellow-triumvir,  Antony.  To  the 
bitter  complaints  of  Octavius,  Lepidus  answers: 


L.  12. 


"  His  faults  in  him  seem  .  .  .  hereditary, 
Rather  than  purchased ;  what  he  cannot 

change, 
Than  what  he  chooses." 


The  language  is  a  little  ambiguous,  but  the  voice 
sounds  like  the  voice  of  the  indeterminist.  Whether 
the  dramatist  is  here  seeking  to  throw  contempt 
upon  this  mode  of  whitewashing  weakness  and 
vice  I  will  not  undertake  to  decide,  but  there  is 
much  to  suggest  it.  No  excuse  could  have  been 
more  inappropriate  under  the  circumstances,  since 
Octavius  might  easily  rejoin:  It  was  all  one  to 
him  why  Antony  could  not  be  depended  upon  to 
perform  the  duties  belonging  to  his  position ; 
what  he  had  to  deal  with  was  the  fact,  and  on 
any  theory  of  its  cause  he  was  confronted  with 
a  condition  that  must  come  to  an  end.  These 
thoughts,  indeed,  can  be  read  between 
the  lines  of  Octavius'  reply.  He  com- 
pletely ignores  Lepidus'  apology,  continues  to 
blame  Antony  without  raising  the  question  whether 
his  faults  could  be  changed  or  not,  and  asserts  his 
own  unwillingness  to  bear  the  burdens  rolled  upon 
his  shoulders  by  another's  voluptuousness. 

Evidently  Lepidus  does  not  understand  the  in- 
deterministic  theory  well  enough  to  recognize  the 


The  Freedom  of  the  Will  157 

limits  within  which,  even  in  the  eyes  of  its  friends, 
its  excuses  are  relevant.  Or,  perhaps  shaken  by 
fear  that  if  Antony  falls  the  heir  of  Julius  Caesar 
may  elect  to  rule  the  world  alone,  he  is  merely 
talking  at  random.  This  latter  hypothesis  has 
antecedent  probabilities  in  its  favor.  Drama  and 
history  alike  bear  witness  to  the  justice  of  the 
verdict  pronounced  by  Antony  soon  after  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  triumvirate. 

"  This  is  a  slight  unmeritable  man, 
Meet  to  be  sent  on  errands. 


A  barren-spirited  fellow ;  one  that  feeds    ?•  c-  *Y* 
On  abjects,  orts  and  imitations,  36-39.    ' 

Which,  out  of  use  and  staled  by  other 

men, 
Begin  his  fashion." 

Lepidus  seems  conscious  of  his  weakness.  And  it 
may  have  been  but  a  fulfilment  of  his  forebodings, 
when,  after  he  had  served  Octavius'  purpose,  he 
was  thrown  aside  like  a  worn-out  garment. 

The  clever  controversialist,  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour, 
some  years  ago  informed  the  public  that  modern 
determinism  is  bound  to  look  upon  the  popular 
belief  in  free  will  as  an  illusion  produced  by 
natural  selection.  If  society  is  to  be  kept  alive, 
he  imagines  the  argument  to  run,  men  must  attrib- 
ute to  each  other  moral  responsibility  and  there- 
fore freedom ;  if,  then,  the  belief  in  the  latter  is  an 
illusion,  its  existence  can  only   be  explained  by 


158     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

the  elimination  of  those  communities  amongst 
which  it  failed  to  appear.  If  we  may  trust  Shake- 
speare, however, this  hypothesis  is  wholly  gratuitous. 
For  the  kind  of  free  will  about  which  Mr.  Balfour 
is  talking  is  separated  by  a  great  gulf  from  the 
freedom  in  which  the  typical  man  believes.  The 
men  of  the  Elizabethan  era  and  the  men  of  to-day 
agree  in  recognizing  the  existence  of  a  freedom 
from  external  forces  that  permits  the  character, 
in  its  actions,  to  show  what  it  really  is.  And 
where  this  power  of  self-expression  exists  they 
praise  and  blame,  or  in  other  words,  impute  respon- 
sibility. The  vast  majority  of  the  human  race 
have  never  dreamed  of  a  freedom  of  another  kind. 
When  a  Hamlet  and  a  Lepidus  fall  into  perplex- 
ities, it  is  because  they  confuse  the  necessity  that 
links  action  to  character  and  the  necessity  that 
wrenches  action  away  from  character,  and  forces 
into  the  world  deeds  which  the  will  itself  would 
never  consent  to  send  forth. 


CHAPTER  VII 
VIRTUE  AND  HAPPINESS 

After  Cornwall  had  blinded  Gloucester,  a  servant 
who  had  witnessed  the  deed  exclaimed,  "  I  '11 
never  care  what  wickedness  I  do,  if  Lear  in. 
this  man  come  to  good."  These  words  vii' 
are  the  expression  of  a  deeply  rooted  postu- 
late of  the  human  mind.  In  any  tolerable  order, 
it  is  felt,  evil-doing  must  be  followed  by  misfortune. 
In  committing  a  wrong,  the  agent  seizes  upon  a 
good  that  can  become  his  only  at  the  expense  of 
some  more  important  interest  of  another  or  others. 
Is  this  the  end  of  the  matter  ?  Or  is  the  world  so 
constructed  that  the  infraction  of  the  laws  of  social 
welfare  inevitably  involves  an  additional  breach  in 
individual  well-being  ? 

When  the  nobler  natures  fall,  there  waits  for 
them  a  penalty  in  the  form  of  remorse.  Impres- 
sive, if  brief,  glimpses  of  its  power  in  minds  sus- 
ceptible in  any  degree  to  the  higher  impulses  are 
afforded  by  the  stories  of  Queen  Gertrude  and 
Enobarbus.  And  when  in  the  blindness  of  passion 
a  high-strung,  sensitive  man  strikes  with  a  deadly 
blow  the  being  he  loves  best,  as  in  Cymbeline  and 
The  Winter's  Tale,  the  law  that  we  reap  more  than 
we  sow  is  fulfilled  to  the  letter : 


160     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

"  Though  those  that  are  betray'd 
^J^JJ      Do  feel  the  treason  sharply,  yet  the  traitor 
Stands  in  worse  case  of  woe." 


But  at  least  in  its  application  to  remorse  this 
principle  is  not  of  universal  validity.  It  would 
hold  for  Imogen  as  it  held  for  Posthumus ;  but 
Iago's  hard  heart  could  laugh  its  threatenings  to 
scorn.  Remorse  is  due  to  the  awakening  of  moral 
sensibilities  that  have  been  temporarily  drugged 
into  torpor ;  therefore,  it  can  never  trouble  those 
in  whom  conscience  is  either  dead  or  unborn. 
The  moral  imbecile  and  the  hardened  criminal  in 
all  cases,  and  men  of  only  average  moral  aptitudes 
in  some  cases,  are  thus  proof  against  everything 
except  extra- moral  suffering.  Do  penalties  of  this 
class  appear,  then,  where  conscience  is  inert  and 
remorse  fails  ? 

That  the  wicked  man  often  brings  trouble  upon 
himself  as  the  direct  result  of  his  wickedness,  it 
requires  no  argument  to  prove.  Such  misfortune 
may  take  on  a  score  of  forms  that  are  sufficiently 
well  known,  as  disease,  imprisonment,  and  failure. 
But  evil-doing  has  indirect  effects  no  less  disas- 
trous that  are  frequently  overlooked.  It  has  been 
said  that  the  worst  punishment  of  the  liar  is  not 
that  others  cannot  believe  him,  but  that  he  can- 
not believe  others.  This  principle,  of  course,  holds 
for  every  variety  of  treachery.  Its  workings  can 
be  traced  without  difficulty  in  Richard  II.  and 
Henry  IY.     Here  we  see  a  pack  of  human  wolves 


Virtue  and  Happiness  161 

uniting  to  remove  an  obstacle  in  their  way,  and 
then,  the  immediate  object  accomplished,  viewing 
each  other  with  distrust  and  suspicion,  which  ul- 
timately create  the  violence  they  apprehend. 

"  The  love  of  wicked  men  converts  to  fear; 
That  fear  to  hate,  and  hate  turns  one  or    Eichard  n. 

both  V.  i.  66. 

To  worthy  danger  and  deserved  death." 

Success  thus  purchased  can  have  no  more  stability 
than  a  wave  of  the  sea. 

It  is  true  that  in  a  society  altogether  dominated 
by  such  men,  the  good  are  often  swept  away  with 
the  bad  to  a  common  ruin.  Witness,  for  instance, 
the  fall  of  Duke  Humphrey,  in  Henry  VI.  Never- 
theless, there  is  a  tendency  at  work  in  favor  of  the 
good.  In  so  far  as  "  nobleness  enkindles  noble- 
ness," they  live  in  a  better  world  than  the  bad. 
Brutus  could  say  with  his  dying  breath,  j,  c. 
"  In  all  my  life  1  found  no  man  but  he  v-  v*  34- 
was  true  to  me."  And  thus  it  proved  with  Henry 
V.  In  contrast  with  almost  all  the  other  reigns  of 
the  historical  plays,  where  the  king  is  either  self- 
indulgent  and  greedy  of  money,  or  treacherous  and 
unprincipled,  or  criminally  weak  and  cowardly,  we 
behold  a  reign  whose  peace,  as  soon  as  the  true 
temper  of  the  monarch  is  revealed,  is  not  troubled 
by  a  single  conspiracy  ;  more  than  this,  a  reign  in 
which  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  year  all  the  sub- 
jects of  the  king  rally  around  him  with  devotion 
and  enthusiasm  in  an  enterprise  that  they  believe 

11 


1 62     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

to  be  demanded  by  justice  and  patriotism.  He 
lived,  indeed,  in  a  better  world  than  his  father  or 
his  son. 

The  punishment  of  grave  crimes  is  rendered 
more  certain  and  also  more  overwhelming  by  a 
principle  that  is  perhaps  most  effectively  exhibited 
in  Macbeth.  Only  a  single  act  of  violence  is  needed 
to  place  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  upon  the  throne  of 
Scotland.  But  unfortunately  circumstances  com- 
pelled him  to  make  a  confidant  of  one  man,  Ban- 
quo  ;  and  who  can  tell  when  Banquo  may  find  it 
to  his  interest  to  turn  against  the  master  he  helped 
to  exalt  ?  So  this  possible  enemy  must  die.  With 
him  must  be  sacrificed  his  son,  that  there  may  be 
no  avenger  left  to  terrify  the  murderer,  and  that 
the  doom  announced  by  the  supernatural  messen- 
gers of  fate  may  be  turned  aside.  These  mysteri- 
ous acts  of  violence  awaken  general  suspicion  and 
fear.  The  fear  of  the  subjects  awakens  new  fear 
in  the  sovereign,  that  in  turn  provokes  renewed  acts 
of  violence  on  his  part.  Strive  against  necessity 
as  he  will,  sin,  he  discovers,  plucks  on  sin;  till 
finally  the  guilty  dupe  is  buried  under  their  ac- 
cumulated weight. 

As  yet,  however,  we  have  discovered  nothing 
worthy  the  name  of  a  universal  law.  For  the  pen- 
alties thus  far  enumerated  are  by  no  means  the 
inevitable  consequence  of  a  violation  of  the  moral 
order.  Some  Iagos  escape  detection,  their  plans 
succeed  to  their  entire  satisfaction,  and  they  be- 
come  pillars    of   society.     Even   if   unmasked,   it 


Virtue  and  Happiness  163 

happens  more  than  once  that "  the  wicked  Hamlet  m. 
prize  itself  buys  out  the  law."  No  ex-  m-  59- 
emplification  of  this  truth  is  more  revolting  than 
Henry  VIII.,  whom  Shakespeare  and  Fletcher  were 
compelled  to  dismiss,  secure  and  apparently  happy 
in  the  possession  of  his  desired  bride,  and  as  the 
result  of  his  very  crimes  freed  forever  from  the 
hateful  yoke  of  Rome. 

What,  then,  is  the  successful  villain,  if  only 
sufficiently  callous,  after  all,  a  man  to  be  envied  ? 
Does  his  life  of  unsuspected  or  at  least  unchecked 
crime  afford  him  the  expected  satisfaction  ?  The 
answer  to  this  question  is  given  in  Macbeth. 

If  we  of  the  twentieth  century  would  understand 
the  impression  made  by  this  great  tragedy  upon 
its  first  auditors,  we  must  become  with  them  for  the 
moment  subjects  of  the  first  Stuart.  We  must  look 
back  upon  the  life  of  our  ancestors  as  cramped  and 
disfigured  by  conventions,  prejudices,  and  super- 
stitions. We  must  think  of  our  own  life  as  a  thing- 
to  be  shaped  solely  with  reference  to  the  attain- 
ment of  the  best  ends  through  the  use  of  the  most 
economical  means.  Whether  we  happen  to  know 
it  or  not,  this  ideal  has  come  to  us  from  Italy,  where, 
after  the  night  of  the  Middle  Ages,  it  blossomed 
and  bore  fruit  under  the  regenerating  influences 
of  classical  culture.  The  great  personalities  it 
produced  are  not  entirely  unknown  to  us.  Some 
were  guided  by  the  new  light  to  seek  a  develop- 
ment of  their  volitional  powers  that  made  them 
a  blessing  to  their    own    age    and   to   posterity. 


164     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Others  there  were,  however,  whose  emancipation 
from  the  past  meant  the  destruction  of  every 
scruple,  every  restraint  that  might  have  kept  them 
from  making  self  the  centre  of  their  universe. 
These  latter,  if  we  have  caught  by  contagion,  or  for 
any  other  reason  share  the  feelings  of  the  typical 
Italian,  —  these  latter  are  our  idols,  particularly 
those  among  them  who  have  risen  to  supreme 
power  in  the  state.  In  this  position  they  can  in- 
dulge every  wish,  yes,  every  passing  whim.  What 
more  can  life  offer  ?  And  we  could  demonstrate, 
if  necessary,  that  this  happy  condition  would  have 
been  forever  closed  to  them,  had  they  not  thrust 
aside  from  beginning  to  end  every  consideration 
except  that  of  the  best  means  to  their  own  aggran- 
dizement. On  the  stage,  in  the  seats  reserved  for 
the  aristocracy,  we  see  the  incarnations  of  our 
ideals,  men  who,  sometimes  from  comparatively 
humble  beginnings,  have  attained  to  royal  favor, 
wealth,  station,  and  almost  boundless  power,  through 
their  superiority  to  the  considerations  that  restrain 
the  stupid  and  timid  herd.  It  is  with  these 
thoughts,  these  ideals  in  the  background  of  con- 
sciousness, that  we  watch  the  rise  to  greatness  of 
a  man  and  a  woman  dominated  by  our  own  spirit. 
Our  hero  is  not  an  Italian,  as  we  might  have  ex- 
pected. The  dramatist  has  just  given  us  Othello.1 
Perhaps  this  may  have  moved  him  to  lay  the  scene 

1  This  chronology  is  conjectural,  as  in  most  cases  when  we  come 
to  details ;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  is  the  most  plausible  guess  we 
can  make. 


Virtue  and  Happiness  165 

in  another  part  of  the  world,  and  to  make  the  plot 
turn  upon  the  employment  of  violence  rather  than 
intrigue.  Perhaps,  too,  he  thought  the  majority  of 
his  audience  could  better  realize  the  political  con- 
ditions of  Scotland  than  of  Italy.  But  whatever 
may  have  determined  the  setting,  there  can  be 
no  mistake  about  the  essence  of  the  drama.  It 
represents  the  inner  life  of  the  unscrupulous  and 
successful  political  adventurer  of  the  Sixteenth 
Century. 

Macbeth  is  to-day  commonly,  perhaps  univer- 
sally regarded  as  a  tragedy  of  remorse.  Such  a 
conception  is,  I  believe,  not  merely  erroneous,  it 
utterly  obscures  the  connection  between  evil-doing 
and  its  harvest  that  is  set  forth  in  the  play.  The 
first  step  towards  discovering  this  relationship 
must  therefore  be  an  examination  of  the  tradi- 
tional theory. 

The  view  that  Macbeth  was  originally  a  good 
man,  the  only  flaw  in  whose  character  was  a  cer- 
tain lack  of  determination  through  which  he  was 
led  astray  by  the  weird  sisters  and  his  wife,  this 
view  has  fortunately  almost  disappeared.  How  it 
ever  came  into  existence  is  difficult  to  understand. 

"  What  beast  was  't,  then, 
That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 

.     .     .       Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make    v^  47 

both: 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their 
fitness  now 


1 66     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Does  unmake  you.     I  have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  't  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 
I  would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 
Have  pluck'd  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 
And  dash'd  the  brains  out,  had  I  so  sworn  as  you 
Have  done  to  this." 

Surely  these  words  of  Lady  Macbeth  are  sufficiently 
explicit.  The  first  suggestions  of  foul  play  came 
from  Macbeth's  own  unscrupulous  ambition.  The 
role  of  the  weird  sisters  is  strictly  limited  to 
promising  success. 

When  the  time  for  action  finally  arrives  moral 
scruples  play  no  part  whatever  in  the  hesitation 
that  ensues.  Macbeth  has  found  that 
the  thought  of  murder  to  be  committed 
in  some  distant  future,  and  the  actual  consent  of  the 
will  to  its  immediate  execution,  are  quite  different 
things.  He  is  therefore  compelled  to  go  through 
an  agony  of  conflict  before  he  can  "  bend  up  each 
corporal  agent  to  this  terrible  feat."  But  the  con- 
siderations that  give  him  pause  are  not  regard  for 
duty  but  fear  of  the  "  bloody  instructions  which  re- 
turn to  plague  the  inventor."  The  world  to  come, 
which  lies  below  the  horizon  line,  he  is  willing  to 
"  jump."  But  he  cannot  free  himself  from  fear  of 
the  vengeance  that  overtakes  in  this  life  the  traitor 
and  the  murderer.  He  were  resolved,  if  he  could 
only  be  assured  that  the  point  of  his  knife  would 
not  be  turned  against  himself.  True,  other  and 
higher  considerations  enter  his  mind.  For  a 
moment  the  promptings  of  honor  and  loyalty  are 


Virtue  and  Happiness  167 

allowed  to  hold  the  attention ;  thereupon  the  graces 
of  his  sovereign  present  themselves  and  prepare 
to  plead  for  the  threatened  life.  But  no,  the  old 
familiar  counsellors  push  them  aside  and  hasten 
to  urge  the  danger  to  which  he  will  subject  him- 
self if  he  stirs  the  indignation  of  his  countrymen 
by  outraging  their  sympathies. 

After  the  crime  has  been  committed  the  prevail- 
ing emotion  is  not  sorrow  for  sin,  but,  as  before, 
fear,  fear  of  the  dagger  and  the  poisoned  cup.  It 
haunts  him  in  his  dreams ;  it  drives  him  to  keep  a 
paid  agent  in  every  house,  and  even  persuades  him 
to  spy  upon  the  cut-throats  who  do  his  work ;  it 
hounds  him  on  to  ever  new  murders  and  atrocities. 
Between  the  murder  of  Duncan  and  the  second 
meeting  with  the  weird  sisters  fear  is  the  domi- 
nant note  of  every  soliloquy  and  of  every  dialogue 
with  Lady  Macbeth. 

I  am  not  unaware  that  Coleridge  finds  in  these 
utterances  of  a  troubled  mind  indications  of  the 
activity  of  conscience.1  No  grounds  are  alleged 
for  his  hypothesis,  but  in  its  favor  might  be  urged 
the  fact  that  Macbeth  is  a  soldier  whose  bravery 
and  address  upon  the  field  of  battle  had  brought 
him  the  title  and  estate  of  the  Thane  of  Cawdor. 
This  fact,  however,  proves  nothing.  Much  bravery 
is  merely  the  insensibility  of  habit ;  and  use  and 
wont  which  harden  men  to  danger  as  they  do  to 
privation  may  leave  them  helpless  in  situations 
that  are  radically  new.     Hence   the   terror   with 

1  Notes  on  Shakespeare  :  Macbeth. 


168      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

which  ghosts  have  always  inspired  even  the  bold- 
Cf  Macbeth  es^  na^ures.  Coleridge's  dictum,  in  fact, 
in.  iv.  99-  seems  to  have  no  other  basis  than  the 
demands  of  his  own  transcendentalism 
which,  discovering  no  direct  traces  of  moral  sen- 
sibility proceeds  to  read  them  into  the  text  as  best 
it  can. 

Nevertheless,  Macbeth  is  not  absolutely  without 
conscience,  though  Coleridge  does  not  succeed  in 
identifying  the  indications  of  its  existence.  The 
Scotch  nobleman  is  no  mere  echo  of  Richard  III. 
or  Iago.  In  the  mouths  of  neither  of  these 
worthies  should  we  hear  the  words,  "  For  Banquo's 
_    .  issue  have  I  filed  my  mind ;  "  still  less 

TTT    i    fi*i— fift 

'those  which  follow,  "For  them  the 
gracious  Duncan  have  I  murder'd."  It  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  completely  insensible  criminal  both 
in  the  real  world  and  in  Shakespeare's  representa- 
tion of  it1  that  he  looks  upon  his  victim  with 
contempt.  Strength  is  all  he  admires,  and  the  un- 
suspecting victim  is  in  his  eyes  weak  and  stupid. 
It  is  of  great  significance,  therefore,  that  Macbeth 
has  not  lost  all  his  admiration  for  the  childlike 
innocence  of  his  king  even  when  actually  coupled, 
as  it  seems  to  have  been  in  this  case,  with  a  lack 
of  force.  Equally  significant  is  the  farther  fact 
that  Macbeth  calls  his  crimes  by  their  proper 
names,  "  murder,"  "  treason,"  "  this  hangman's 
[butcher's]  hands."  For  this  habit,  since  it  is 
not  the  cynicism  of   the  moral  imbecile,  removes 

1  Kichard  III.  and  Iago. 


Virtue  and  Happiness  169 

him  from  the  class  of  Iago  as  certainly  as  it  does 

from  that  of  the  half- hardened  criminal  who  in 

wilful  blindness  calls  theft  "  purchase." 

Nevertheless,  Macbeth   is   a  man   without   real 

scruples,   although    faint    images    of    restraining 

voices  sometimes  chime  upon  his  inner  ear.     What 

moral  sensitiveness  he  possesses  is  only  sufficient 

to  enable  him  to  enjoy  coddling   himself   for  his 

regret  at  his  unfortunate  conduct,  to  make  of  him 

a  sentimentalizing  dealer  in  fine  phrases.     He  can 

tell  us  that  treason  has  done  its  worst ;  he  can  bid 

seeling  night  scarf  up  the  tender  eve  of    „T  ..   „„ 
00  r  J  in.  11. 46. 

pitiful  day  at  the  very  moment  when  he  is 

completing  his  arrangements  for  a  second  murder. 
Macbeth's  fine  phrases  about  murdering  innocent 
sleep,  and  the  many  companion  utterances,  sound 
like  the  musings  of  a  sympathetic  and  poetically 
gifted  nature  who  is  sitting  among  the  audience 
and  watching  the  course  of  the  action.  Even  this 
puts  the  case  a  little  too  strongly.  A  love  of 
mouth-filling  adjectives  and  of  exaggeration  for  its 
own  sake  appears  so  frequently  that  we  have  to 
make  a  double  discount  upon  everything  he  says. 
At  bottom  his  sorrow  at  his  own  deeds  is  about  as 
deep  and  lasting  as  that  of  the  average  play-goer 
at  the  misfortunes  of  last  night's  heroine.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  in  one  who  believes  himself 
doomed  to  centuries,  probably  an  eternity,  of  suffer- 
ing, yet  has  so  little  power  to  realize  the  absent 
that  he  remains  unmoved  — certainly  undeterred  — 
by  the  prospect.     We  ought  accordingly  to  trust 


170     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Macbeth  no  farther  than  we  should  Wainewright, 
the  essayist,  or  Lacenaire,  the  poet.  If  he  could 
control  his  terror  he  would  be  able,  like  Lacenaire, 
to  kill  a  man  with  as  little  compunction  as  he 
would  drink  a  glass  of  wine ;  and  after  the  murder 
he  would  experience  as  little  genuine  remorse. 

It  is  not  otherwise  with  Lady  Macbeth.  The 
emotions  that  she  drowned  in  wine  were  fear  that 
they  might  fail  in  their  attempt,  or  be  discovered 
before  the  traces  had  been  removed.  In  order  to 
show  his  newly  acquired  independence  of  character, 
her  husband  affects  to  keep  from  her  the  murder 
of  Banquo  till  she  may  be  able  to  applaud  the 
accomplished  deed.  She  is  not  so  simple  as  those 
commentators  suppose,  who  describe  her  as  unable 
to  see  what  is  coming.  Nevertheless,  she  makes 
no  attempt  to  stay  the  murderous  hand.  The  only 
expression  of  feeling  that  escapes  her  after  they 
are  started  in  their  career  is  longing  for  the  lost 
sense  of  security. 

" '  T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
III.  ii.  6.        Than   by   destruction   dwell   in   doubtful 

If  there  be  any  significance  in  these  facts,  Lady 
Macbeth  is  as  bare  of  moral  scruples  as  is  her 
husband. 

It  is  widely  believed  that  Shakespeare's  play  as 
it  has  come  down  to  us  is  a  torso,  possibly  wrecked 
by  Middleton,  that  he  might  enhance  its  popularity 
by  restoring  it  in  accordance  with  the  taste  of  the 


Virtue  and  Happiness  171 

times.  If  some  such  hypothesis  be  true,  we  must 
suppose  many  passages  have  been  lost  that  would 
have  thrown  additional  light  upon  the  heroine's 
character.  But  since  those  we  possess  unite  in 
telling  the  same  story,  we  may  feel  confident  that 
our  interpretation  correctly  represents  its  main 
outlines. 

This  paucity  of  data,  however,  has  made  it 
possible  for  another  theory  to  grow  up  and  main- 
tain its  ground.  According  to  it,  Lady  Macbeth  is 
an  unselfish  and  lofty  nature,  carried  away  for  the 
moment  to  do  violence  to  her  permanent  self  by 
her  love  for  her  husband.  The  evidence  for  this 
view  will  not  stand  the  slightest  scrutiny.  She 
loved,  we  are  told,  her  husband,  her  father,  and  her 
child.  Grant  this,  and  nothing  is  proved.  For 
while  strong  family  affection  is  not  common  in  the 
lower  grades  of  criminality,  it  sometimes  occurs.1 
And  have  we  not  seen  a  callous  murderer  risking 
his  life  to  save  a  cat  ?  Her  love  for  her  father,  of 
which  so  much  has  been  made,  is  certainly  not  in- 
tense enough  to  have  any  great  effect  upon  her 
actions.  Possibly  we  must  believe  her  when  she 
declares, 

"  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done  V 

But  this  resemblance  does  not  prevent  her  from 
placing  the  daggers  where  Macbeth  cannot  miss 
them ;  from  giving  the  signal  for  the  deed ;  from 

1  See  above,  p.  122. 


172     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

following  her  husband's  retreating  steps  with 
strained  attention  ;  from  entering  a  room  near  the 
scene  she  would  not  witness  in  order  to  assure 
herself  of  the  successful  issue.  She  can  even 
picture  the  murderer  in  the  very  act  of  striking  the 
blow  and  at  the  same  time  remain  calm  enough  to 
note  that  "  the  surfeited  grooms  do  mock  their 
charge  with  snores." 

Again,  her  fainting  on  the  discovery  that  Macbeth 
has  killed  the  two  grooms  has  been  interpreted  as 
an  indubitable  sign  of  returning  moral  sensibility. 
Let  us  assume  for  the  sake  of  argument  that  the 
swoon  is  genuine ;  that  the  fact  that  she  needs 
help  at  the  exact  moment  when  Macbeth  begins 
talking  too  much  is  merely  a  matter  of  chance. 
Even  so,  the  conclusion  does  not  follow  with  neces- 
sity, for  the  incident  is  susceptible  of  several  dif- 
ferent explanations.  Macbeth's  detailed  description 
of  the  appearance  of  the  murdered  Duncan  and  the 
sleeping  attendants,  perhaps  in  connection  with 
the  disappearance  of  the  effects  of  the  wine,  may 
have  awakened  her  to  a  realizing  sense  of  her 
position ;  and  the  horror  with  which  it  inspired 
her  may  have  been  just  that  which  she  sought  to 
banish  by  the  wine.1 

1  The  following  passage  from  Feuerbach's  work,  already  cited, 
describes  a  case  so  nearly  parallel  to  the  swoon  of  Lady  Macbeth  as 
here  interpreted,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  it.  Andreas 
Bichel,  a  day  laborer,  lured  two  young  girls  into  his  house  and 
killed  them,  in  order  to  sell  their  clothes.  At  no  time  after  his 
arrest  did  he  show  the  slightest  trace  of  remorse ;  and  throughout 
his  examination  he  maintained  his  self-control  perfectly,  except  on 


Virtue  and  Happiness  173 

To  be  sure,  Lady  Macbeth,  like  her  husband,  can 
deal  in  very  effective  oratory.     Witness  the  beau- 

the  occasion  to  be  described.  He  pleaded  not  guilty,  and  as  tbere 
had  been  no  witnesses  of  the  crime,  progress  was  at  first  very  slow. 
For  a  long  time  the  most  that  could  be  accomplished  was  to  force 
him  to  the  admission  of  one  murder,  for  which  the  circumstantial 
evidence  was  overwhelming.  But  he  so  described  the  conditions 
that  brought  it  about  as  to  reduce  his  guilt  to  a  minimum.  Finally, 
in  accordance  with  a  Bavarian  law  framed  for  such  exigencies,  he 
was  taken  from  the  town  in  which  the  trial  was  being  held  to  his 
native  village.  "  He  was  first  brought  into  the  magistrate's  office. 
Immediately  upon  his  entrance  he  was  overcome  by  the  thought 
that  he  was  now  at  the  place  where  the  crime  had  been  committed, 
and  he  was  prevented  from  fainting  only  by  being  given  some 
water.  The  judge  addressed  him  in  kind  and  sensible  words : 
'  You  are  now,'  he  said,  '  in  your  native  town,  near  your  home  and 
the  scene  of  your  crime.  Confess  the  entire  truth  here  and  at 
once.  You  will  be  taken  to  your  own  home,  you  will  see  the 
corpses  themselves.'  But  the  culprit's  will  still  remained  stronger 
than  even  the  powerful  feelings  that  threatened  to  destroy  con- 
sciousness. He  persisted  in  the  assertion  that  he  knew  nothing  of 
the  second  corpse  alleged  to  have  been  found  in  his  dwelling. 

"  Thereupon  he  was  taken  to  his  house.  In  the  principal  room 
lay  upon  boards  the  two  mangled  corpses.  He  was  led  to  the  first 
one.  At  this  horrible  sight  he  trembled  in  every  limb  ;  the  muscles 
of  his  face  twitched  ;  his  expression  grew  terrible  ;  he  demanded 
water  to  moisten  his  lips  and  mouth.  When  asked  whether  he 
recognized  the  corpse,  he  answered  in  a  hollow  voice :  '  No  ;  I  have 
never  before  seen  a  corpse  that  has  lain  in  the  grave.'  He  was 
then  led  to  the  second  one.  He  could  now  no  longer  stand  up- 
right, but  sank  into  a  chair.  His  limbs  trembled  violently  and  his 
face  was  disfigured  with  hideous  contortions.  He  now  declared 
that  he  recognized  this  second  body  as  Katherina  Seidel.  He  was 
asked  to  explain  his  emotion  at  the  sight  of  the  first  corpse.  '  I 
trembled  only  for  fear  of  the  people,'  was  his  answer.  '  Who  would 
not  tremble  under  circumstances  like  these  ? '  and  persisted  in  his 
assertions  of  ignorance."     Fenerbach,  opus  cit.,  p.  47. 

The  emotion  that  overcame  Bichel  was  fear,  as  is  shown  by  a 
study  of  the  entire  case.    The  sight  of  his  native  village,  then  of 


174     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

tiful  invocation  beginning  :  "  Come,  you 
spirits  that  tend  on  mortal  thoughts." 
But  if  this  be  a  picture  of  a  mind  really  battling 
with  temptation,  we  must  suppose  either  a  very 
stupid  dramatist  or  a  very  stupid  woman.  For  if 
Lady  Macbeth  had  ever  learned  anything  from 
experience,  she  must  have  known  that  to  keep  pity 
from  doing  its  work  one  must  drive  it  from  the 
mind  by  the  thought  of  personal  gain.  The  spirits 
should  have  been  bidden  to  fill  her  mind  with 
pictures  of  that  future  dignity  to  which  she  and 
her  husband  aspired,  with  an  imaginative  foretaste 
of  the  joys  of  luxury  and  power.  As  it  stands, 
therefore,  the  entire  address  seems  to  me  to  have 
its  source  in  the  same  temperament  and  character 
that  produced  her  husband's  poetic  effusions.  Out- 
bursts in  this  vein,  to  be  sure,  will  hardly  be  ex- 
pected from  a  Goneril,  but  demonstrably  they  can 
come  from  a  Lacenaire.  They  therefore  prove 
nothing  beyond  the  most  rudimentary  moral  capac- 
ity, a  capacity  just  sufficient  for  a  touch  of  senti- 
mentalism.  This  particular  ebullition  does  not 
even  indicate  a  sentimentalism  that  is  innate.  As 
the  only  piece  of  declamation  in  which  she  is 
represented  as  indulging,  —  unless  the  remark 
about  her  father  belongs  in  the  same  category, — 
it  perhaps  ought  to  be  attributed  to  the  principle 
that  husbands    and  wives   occasionally  drop   into 

his  victims,  brought  home  to  his  imagination  for  the  first  time  the 
extent  of  his  danger  and  the  momentousness  of  the  issues  in  the 
outcome  of  his  trial. 


Virtue  and  Happiness  175 

each  other's  mannerisms  by  mere  force  of  imita- 
tion. Hence,  as  soon  as  the  necessity  arose  of 
summoning  every  faculty  to  the  task  of  toning  up 
the  shattered  nerves  of  her  companion,  she  would 
find  no  difficulty  in  throwing  aside  this  loosely 
worn  habit. 

The  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is  that 
Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth  are  by  nature  proof 
against  attacks  of  remorse.  Some  slight  dis- 
comfort they  may  possibly  feel  for  a  time,  but  it 
will  quickly  wear  off,  leaving  no  trace  behind. 
Armed  as  they  are  at  this  point,  will  they  then 
escape  unscathed  in  their  war  against  their  fellow- 
men  ? 

The  murder  of  Duncan  is  in  the  past.  Treason 
has  done  its  worst.  Macbeth  is  seated  upon  the 
throne  and  Lady  Macbeth  is  queen  of  Scotland. 
She  has  succeeded  ;  her  heart's  desire  is  hers.  But 
there  is  no  joy  in  her  soul,  for  peace  has  gone 
forever  from  her  life. 


"  Nought 's  had,  all 's  spent, 
Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'T  is  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy." 


m.  ii.  4. 


We  must  remember  that  Lady  Macbeth  was  not 
a  woman  of  great  temperamental  courage,  as  her 
husband  erroneously  supposed.  Real  fearlessness 
does  not  need  to  drink  wine  in  order  to  make  itself 
bold.     It  can  look  fate  in  the  eye,  and  when  the 


176     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

worst  presents  itself  to  the  imagination  it  does  not 
recoil  with  the  cry  : 

"  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways  ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad." 

No,  she  was  not  insensible  to  the  dangers  that  sur- 
rounded her  from  the  day  she  entered  upon  the 
path  of  murder.  They  shook  her  frame ;  there 
were  moments,  at  least,  when  she  thought  it  better 
to  be  dead  than  bear  the  agony  of  an  uncertain 
future.  But  she  possessed  a  heroic,  an  almost 
superhuman  will.  As  long  as  she  oould  act,  even 
though  she  had  ceased  to  share  altogether  the 
counsels  of  her  lord,  she  merely  suffered,  but  her 
emotions  did  not  overthrow  her.  But  when  Mac- 
beth had  gone  into  the  field,  and  she  was  shut  up 
in  a  castle  condemned  to  inactivity,  then  the  terror 
that  had  been  locked  up  within  her  broke  its 
chains.  The  mind  gave  way  under  the  strain  of 
anxiety  and  the  tortured  soul  exhibited  its  hitherto 
hidden  agony,  not,  indeed,  in  prophecy,  but  in  remi- 
niscence. It  is  a  single  theme  that  we  hear  when 
she  comes  before  us  for  the  last  time :  a  little 
water  will  not  clear  her  of  this  deed.  What  then  ? 
They  will  be  discovered ;  and  again  and  again  she 
lives  through  the  fearful  scenes  in  which  her  hus- 
band's weakness  threatens  to  mar  all,  and  her  resolu- 
tion must  be  the  source  of  his  self-control  as  well  as 
her  own.  When  the  knocking  at  the  castle  gate 
broke  the  silence  of  the  night,  when  the  disordered 
imagination  of  her  husband  conjured  up  the  ghost  of 


Virtue  and  Happiness  177 

Banquo,  she  seemed  calm  and  self-possessed.  But 
now  we  know  what  storms  were  sweeping  through 
her  mind,  what  storms  have  visited  it  since. 

The  common  opinion  that  the  sleep-walking  scene 
represents  the  workings  of  remorse  is  entirely 
gratuitous,  quite  apart  from  the  view  we  may  take 
of  Lady  Macbeth's  character.  A  few  of  its  expres- 
sions may  be  so  interpreted ;  none  of  them  must 
be ;  a  majority  cannot  be.  The  dominant  note  is 
plainly  fear,  fear  that  Macbeth  will  mar  all  by  his 
agitation,  fear  that  these  hands  of  hers  can  never 
lose  the  telltale  mark  of  blood.  It  is  noteworthy 
that  Schiller,  whose  Kantian  preconceptions  were 
the  only  assurance  he  needed  that  this  must  be  a 
representation  of  remorse,  —  it  is  noteworthy  that 
Schiller,  when  he  came  to  translate  this  passage, 
found  himself  compelled  to  embody  his  interpreta- 
tion in  language  that  has  no  counterpart  in  the 
original.    In  Shakespeare's  text  the  physician  says  : 

"  Foul  whisperings  are  abroad :  unnatural 

deeds 
Do   breed  unnatural   troubles  :   infected    v  .  _« 

minds 
To  their    deaf  pillows  will  discharge 

their  secrets." 

These  lines  Schiller  translates  : 

"  Unnattirlich  ungeheure 
Verbrechen  wecken  unnatiirliche 
Gewissensangst,  und  die  beladne  Seele  beichtet 
Dem  tauben  Kissen  ihre  Schuld. 
12 


178      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

If  we  read  this  scene  as  Shakespeare  wrote  it,  we 
shall  find  no  evidence  of  G-ewissensangst. 

The  "  lesson  "  to  be  drawn  from  Macbeth,  there- 
fore, is  not  that  remorse  will  come;  that,  as  we 
have  seen,  will  depend  upon  the  development  of 
the  moral  nature.  What  is  represented  is  the 
terror  of  those  who  set  themselves  up  as  the  enemy 
of  mankind.  It  filled  Lady  Macbeth's  waking 
thoughts  with  scorpions,  it  tortured  her  nights  with 
timorous  dreams.  About  her  is  the  struggle  to 
keep  from  her  enemies'  grasp  what  she  by  vio- 
lence has  seized  ;  before  her  lies  the  day  when  one  of 

them  will  finally  succeed.     If  it  be  true 
j  '.  '  that  "  they  lose  [the  world]  that  do  buy 

it  with  much  care  ; "  if  it  be  true  that 

if^m  m  "  r^c^es  nneless  is  as  P00r  as  winter  to 
him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor," 
Lady  Macbeth  has  lost  in  the  game  of  life.  She 
goes  to  her  death  weak,  poor,  and  broken  in  spirit. 
This  is  no  fancy  picture,  created  to  frighten  the 
bad  and  edify  the  good.  Whether  it  was  suggested 
by  the  description  of  the  life  of  the  tyrant  in  Plato's 
Republic,  or  by  some  account  of  the  careers  of  the 
famous  Italian  despots,  cannot  be  determined. 
At  all  events,  it  is  a  faithful  representation  of  fact. 
John  Addington  Symonds  writes :  "  The  life  of 
the  despot  was  usually  one  of  prolonged  terror. 
Immured  in  strong  places  on  high  rocks,  or  con- 
fined to  gloomy  fortresses  like  the  Milanese  Castello, 
he  surrounded  his  person  with  foreign  troops,  pro- 
tected his  bed-chamber  with  a  picked  guard,  and 


Virtue  and  Happiness  179 

watched  his  meat  and  drink  lest  they  should  be 
poisoned.  .  .  .  He  had  no  real  friends  or  equals, 
and  against  his  own  family  he  adopted  an  attitude  of 
fierce  suspicion,  justified  by  the  frequent  intrigues 
to  which  he  was  exposed.  His  timidity  verged 
on  monomania.  Like  Alfonso  II.  of  Naples,  he 
was  tortured  with  the  ghosts  of  starved  or  strangled 
victims ;  like  Ezzelino,  he  felt  the  mysterious 
fascination  of  astrology ;  like  Filippo  Maria  Vis- 
conti,  he  trembled  at  the  sound  of  thunder,1  and 
set  one  band  of  body-guards  to  watch  another  next 
his  person.2  He  dared  not  hope  for  a  quiet  end. 
No  one  believed  in  the  natural  death  of  a  prince  : 
princes  must  be  poisoned  or  poniarded. "  3 

But  then  there  are  the  intrepid.  They  think  all 
men  mortal  but  themselves,  and  cannot  imagine 
the  dagger  as  ever  reaching  them.  Cowards  may 
die  many  times  before  their  death,  but  they  face 
the  inevitable  end  but  once.  Success  they  feel  sure 
of ;  it  is  their  temperament  to  be  optimistic.  Who 
shall  pluck  the  reward  from  their  hands  ? 

The  art  of  the  poet  has  shown  us  this,  also. 
Originally,  Macbeth  was  more  timorous  than  his 
wife.  At  all  events,  if  he  felt  no  more  fear,  he  had 
not  her  art  of  driving  it  from  the  mind  when  action 

1  Cf.  Macbeth  :   "  That   I  may  tell  pale-hearted     TV    .   8- 

fear  it  lies, 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder." 

2  Cf.  Macbeth,  Act  III.,  scene  iii.,  line  1  ff.  It  will  not  be  for- 
gotten that  Macbeth,  too,  was  visited  by  apparitions  of  the  mur- 
dered, and  that  in  his  terror  he  resorted  to  the  occult. 

a  The  Age  of  the  Despots,  p.  118. 


180     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

was  necessary.  But  he  has  received  supernatural 
assurance  of  safety  from  a  source  that  he  never 
questions.  He  has,  indeed,  a  war  on  his  hands,  but 
he  is  a  soldier  by  profession.  And  has  he  not  been 
told  that  he  shall  never  be  vanquished  until  great 

™  •  ™        Birnam   wood  to   high   Dunsinane    hill 

IV.  i.  92.  °  . 

shall  come  against  him  ?  and  that  in 
victory  or  defeat  none  of  woman  born 
shall  harm  him  ?  Moreover,  he  has  health  and  the 
possession  of  all  his  faculties,  wealth,  power,  and 
the  assured  fame  that  follows  in  the  train  of  the 
kingly  office.     What  lacks  he  yet  ? 

What  lacks  he  yet  ?  Everything  that  makes 
life  worth  having,  for  his  desire  is  got  without 
content.  Why  without  content  ?  He  knows  only 
too  well. 

"  That  which  should  accompany  old 

age, 
As   honour,   love,   obedience,    troops   of 

friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their 

V.  iii.  24.  stead, 

Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honour, 

breath, 
Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny, 

and  dare  not." 

It  was  for  pomp  and  power  that  he  gave  his  soul 
to  the  common  enemy  of  man.  But  the  one  can 
permanently  amuse  only  a  child  ;  the  other  he  finds 
an  empty  word  unless  the  obedience  rendered  be 


Virtue  and  Happiness  1 8 1 

prompted  by  loyalty  and  love.  And  this  he  can- 
not have.  For  it  is  the  nature  of  moral  evil  to 
divide  man  from  his  fellow-man.  The  egoist  thinks 
he  is  merely  deciding  at  each  point  in  his  career 
whether  he  shall  snatch  this  advantage  or  make 
that  sacrifice.  In  reality,  he  is  deciding  whether 
he  shall  lead  the  broader  or  the  narrower  life. 
With  every  attack  upon  others  he  will  grow  at  the 
same  time  more  suspicious  of  his  fellows  and  more 
indifferent  to  their  interests.  If  continued,  this 
attitude  will  extend  to  his  friends,  till  finally  even 
those  he  once  loved  best  will  become  nothing  to  him 
except  as  they  are  instruments  to  some  ulterior  end. 
Thus  he  is  drawing  away  from  others  at  the  very  time 
when  others  are  drawing  away  from  him,  till  finally 
there  will  come  a  day  when  his  isolation  is  complete. 
The  bitterness  of  this  last  stroke  was  not  with- 
held from  Macbeth.  Not  but  that  his  wife,  and 
possibly  some  few  others,  may  not  have  retained 
till  the  end  their  devotion  to  him.  The  tragedy 
of  this  man's  loneliness  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
become  incapable  of  any  feeling  of  unity  with  them. 
They  were  now  for  him  mere  walking,  gesticulating 
statues,  incapable  of  speaking  to  the  needs  of  his 
soul,  and  he  was  alone  in  this  wilderness  of  lifeless 
forms.  The  causes  of  this  final  estrangement  can, 
in  part,  be  guessed  ;  in  part  they  must  remain 
forever  unknown.  Whether  it  was  that  prolonged 
misery  had  dulled  Macbeth's  sensibilities,  and  ren- 
dered him  incapable  of  all  strong  emo-  cf.  V.  v. 
tion ;  whether  it  was  that  she,  who  was    9_15- 


1 82     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

once  nearest  to  him,  had  become  in  his  eyes,  like 
the  rest,  merely  a  dangerous  tool ;  whether  it  was 
that  both  husband  and  wife  had  wakened  with  a 
shock,  fatal  to  love,  from  their  illusions  respecting 
each  other,  —  who  will  venture  to  say  ?  Certain  it 
is,  at  all  events,  that  these  are  not  bare  abstract 
possibilities  ;  sooner  or  later,  they  must  have  come. 
The  first  two  would  have  been  merely  the  inevita- 
ble results  of  an  unbridled  egoism,  and  the  condi- 
tions into  which  it  had  thrust  him.  The  last 
derives  its  necessity  from  the  special  nature  of  the 
relation  between  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth. 

No  careful  observer  can  have  failed  to  notice  that 
this  man  and  this  woman  had  never  really  known 
each  other.  Misled  by  his  sonorous  phrases,  she 
had  thought  him  too  full  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness  to  catch  the  nearer  way ;  she  had  thought 
him  without  the  wickedness  that  should  attend  am- 
bition. Perhaps  she  was  glad  to  be  undeceived. 
But  in  the  early  days  of  their  married  life  had  she 
expected  she  would  ever,  waking  or  dreaming, 
have  to  say,  "  Fie,  my  lord,  fie  !  A  soldier  and 
af eared "  ?  And  can  a  woman,  even  the  most 
timorous,  and  such  Lady  Macbeth  was  not,  retain 
her  respect  for  the  companion  and  protector  whom 
she  must  thus  address,  not  once,  but  over  and  over 
again  ? 

Macbeth,  too,  had  been  disillusioned.  What  can 
he  think  of  the  judgment  of  the  woman  who,  in 
the  fatal  moment  of  action,  had  spurred  on  his  will 
with  stinging  words  ?     And  can  he  forget  that  once 


Virtue  and  Happiness  183 

he  had  believed  her  literally  invulnerable  to  fear, 
and  that  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  he  had  hailed 
her    as  one  whose  "  undaunted  mettle 
should  compose    nothing   but   males"? 
Now,  he  finds  her  strong  indeed,  but  not,  as  he  had 
fondly  imagined,  immovably  fixed.     His    respect, 
or  at  least  his  admiration  for  her,  is  gone,  even  as 
his   respect  for   himself.     And    his    love,   be   the 
reasons  what  they  will,  has  forsaken  him,  too.     He 
accordingly  listens  to  the  tidings  of  her  death  with 
grim  indifference  :  If  not  at  this  time,  v  v  172S 
she   would   have    died   hereafter ;   fools 
are  dying  every  day. 

Alas,  for  Macbeth  !  Separated  as  he  is  from  his 
kind  by  the  prison  walls  of  hatred,  with  no  inspir- 
ing ideals,  whether  of  service  or  character  to  give 
content  to  his  life,  he  feels  he  has  lived  long 
enough.  For  if  this  be  success,  if  it  is  to  gain  this 
that  men  put  rancors  in  the  vessel  of  their  peace, 
then  truly 

"  Life 's  but  a   walking   shadow,   a   poor 
player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the 

StaSe  .  ,  L.24. 

And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 

Told  by   an   idiot,   full    of    sound    and 

fury, 

Signifying  nothing." 

If  it  had  come  to  this  point,  the  catastrophe  that 
overwhelmed  him  from  without  was  really  a  release. 


184     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Truly,  the  wages  of  Macbeth' s  sin  were  death, 
death  in  life. 

Impressive  as  is  this  revelation  of  the  inner  life 
of  the  fear-free  criminal,  it  will  not  completely 
satisfy  those  who  demand  an  inseparable  connec- 
tion between  wickedness  and  misfortune.  For  it 
may  with  much  plausibility  be  argued  that  Mac- 
beth's  world-weariness  and  despair  were  the  out- 
come of  an  idiosyncrasy  of  temperament.  Such  a 
complete  collapse  we  should  expect  only  where 
there  was  an  active  and  unsatisfied  longing  to  re- 
ceive, and  perhaps  even  to  give  sympathy.  This 
longing  is  not  incompatible  with  complete  selfish- 
ness. It  is  not  infrequently  found  in  the  most 
crassly  egoistic,  showing  itself  among  other  ways 
in  a  preference  for  animal  over  human  companion- 
ship ;  the  former  being  chosen  because  it  involves 
no  serious  counter-demands.  The  existence  of  this 
trait  in  Macbeth  is  inferable  from  what  I  have 
called  his  sentimentalizing.  His  mind  in  playing 
with  the  picture  of  itself  as  caring  for  others,  be- 
trays its  craving  for  their  interest  in  its  own 
welfare.  But,  it  may  be  argued,  the  hunger  for 
fellowship  cannot  be  a  necessary  constituent  of 
human  nature.  In  some  men  it  appears  to  be  non- 
existent; in  others,  rudimentary.  Is  not  this 
appearance  fact  ? 

Problems  of  possibilities,  it  must  be  obvious, 
do  not  belong  within  the  province  of  the  drama, 
whose  function  it  is  to  mirror  certain,  necessarily 
narrow,    areas   of   the   existent.      We   may   infer 


Virtue  and  Happiness  185 

with  much  plausibility,  however,  that  Shakespeare 
considered  the  desire  for  sympathy  an  all  but  uni- 
versal phenomenon,  appearing  often  like  subter- 
ranean streams  in  the  most  unpromising  places. 
He  found  it  in  a  man  like  Richard  III.  : 


Richard  III. 
V.  iii.  200. 


"  I  shall  despair.     There   is   no  creature 
loves  me : 
And  if  I  die,  no  soul  shall  pity  me." 

He  found  it  in  Gloucester's  ruthless  son  : 

"  Yet  Edmund  was  beloved ! "  f.?a*  J; 

111.  ZOV. 

This  hunger  may  be  forgotten  in  the  first  en- 
thusiasm over  some  newly  won  success;  but  in 
the  barren  days  between  great  events,  most  of  all 
in  the  periods  of  depression  and  failure  that  spare 
no  man,  it  will  return.  These  few  touches  of  the 
artist's  brush,  then,  are  a  revelation  of  the  bitter- 
ness of  soul  that  overwhelms  the  base  mind  when 
the  future  looks  black,  when  losses  crowd  upon 
him,  when  failure  has  laid  upon  him  her  iron  hand. 
In  these  gloomy  hours  the  unselfish  may  turn  to 
extra-personal  interests.  The  satisfaction  of  these 
will  give  content  to  their  lives.  But  for  the  self- 
centred  there  is  only  unsatisfied  craving. 

But  however  wide-spread  the  desire  for  human 
fellowship  may  be,  Shakespeare  seems  to  teach 
that  it  may  occasionally  fail.  In  Iago,  for  instance, 
there  is  no  trace  of  it.  He  knows  nothing  of 
family   affection,  of  mutual   confidences,  helpful- 


1 86     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

ness,  and  brotherhood ;  of  delight  in  the  service 
either  of  his  general  or  the  state.  So  much  joy, 
of  course,  he  can  never  possess.  On  the  other 
hand,  its  absence  does  not  appear  to  distress  him 
in  the  least.  Has  he  not,  then,  escaped  his  punish- 
ment ?  May  he  not  find  life,  on  the  whole,  a  very 
comfortable  affair  ? 

The  answer  to  this  question  has  not  been  left 
to  conjecture.  Iago's  mind  harbors  an  inmate 
as  sombre  as  discontent.  The  cynicism  of  this 
ruthless  intriguer  is  not  the  active  despair  of 
virtue  which  we  find  in  Hamlet,  for  apart  from 
the  fact  that  he  has  no  love  for  it,  he  believes 
in  its  existence  here  and  there,  and  counts  upon 
it  as  one  of  the  strings  by  which  to  pull  his 
marionettes.  His  cynicism  is  rather  contempt  for 
the  race  as  a  herd  of  fools,  often  weak  and  always 
stupid,  a  contempt  that  has  its  source  partly  in 
the  consciousness  of  his  own  powers,  partly  in 
his  incapacity  to  look  with  sympathetic  vision 
into  the  inner  palpitating  life  of  his  less  clever 
fellow-men.  Nothing  but  warm  and  deep  sym- 
pathies can  save  the  superior  person  —  or  him  who 
supposes  himself  such  —  from  a  distaste  for  his 
human  environment  as  for  the  monotonous  sandy 
flats  of  a  vast  desert,  in  the  midst  of  which  fate 
has  imprisoned  him.  For  through  the  sympathies 
alone  is  revealed  the  significance  and  worth  of  that 
mingling  of  nobility  and  weakness,  insight  and 
error,  struggle  and  torpor,  joy  and  sorrow,  that 
form  the  content  of  the  commonplace  life.     Iago's 


Virtue  and  Happiness  187 

every  word  and  deed  testify  to  this  corroding 
bitterness  of  soul.  His  existence  is  thus  an  essen- 
tially joyless  one,  lightened  as  it  is  only  by  an 
occasional  gleam  of  satisfaction  at  his  own  acute- 
ness  and  strength  of  will. 

If  Iago  had  been  dull  of  intellect  he  might, 
of  course,  have  escaped  this  experience  —  at  what 
cost  I  need  hardly  point  out.  Intellectual  medi- 
ocrity accompanied  by  emotional  and  volitional 
barrenness  has  perhaps  never  attracted  even  the 
most  superficial  amateur  in  the  art  of  living. 
Confining  our  attention,  then,  to  the  selfishness 
of  intellectual  endowment,  we  discover  that  an 
inexorable  fate  seems  to  have  set  before  it  these 
alternatives :  the  isolation  of  an  unsatisfied  long- 
ing for  human  fellowship ;  the  isolation  of  cynical 
contempt.  The  former,  we  are  distinctly  taught, 
will  poison  and  reduce  to  less  than  nothingness 
the  most  brilliant  outward  success.  Whether  the 
latter  finds  adequate  compensation  in  power,  sta- 
tion, and  luxury,  has  been  left  for  the  spectator 
to  determine.  If  he  agrees  with  the  estimate 
placed  upon  them  by  those  Shakespearean  charac- 
ters who  have  learned  their  value  from  personal 
experience,  his  problem  will  not  be  difficult. 

The  preceding  study  of  the  relation  between 
wickedness  and  its  harvest  has  brought  before 
us  the  principal  factors  involved,  in  so  far  as 
Shakespeare  has  described  them.  Whether  there 
may  not  be  some  loop-hole  through  which  guilt 
occasionally  escapes,  especially  where  it  is  com- 


1 88      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

mingled  with  a  certain  share  of  goodness,  an 
inquiry  that  confines  itself  to  his  text  cannot 
undertake  to  decide.  What  it  can  and  does  show 
is  the  nature  of  the  most  important  tendencies 
at  work,  and  the  insignificance  of  the  chance  in 
favor  of  their  neutralization. 

Our  result  is  no  copy-book  morality,  no  smug 
assurance,  Be  good  and  you  will  be  happy.  The 
gentle  Desdemona,  all  love,  all  service;  Horatio 
bending  over  the  body  of  his  dead  friend ;  Kent 
broken  upon  the  wheel  to  which  his  devotion  has 
bound  him, — these  are  not  happy.  The  leap 
from  the  principle  that  moral  enthusiasm  is,  at  its 
highest,  a  conditio  sine  qua  non  of  happiness  to 
the  principle  that  it  is  a  sufficient  condition  of 
happiness  is  so  violent  that  it  could  hardly  escape 
the  attention  of  any  unbiased  observer.  Accord- 
ingly, I  should  not  think  of  giving  a  moment's 
consideration  to  such  a  doctrine  if  it  had  not 
been  either  tacitly  assumed  or  expressly  asserted 
by  certain  very  "  profound  thinkers,"  and  in 
particular  by  certain  "  profound "  Shakespearean 
critics. 

For  one  who  is  willing  to  see  things  as  they 
are,  there  can  be  no  question  of  the  fundamental 
value  of  a  well-endowed  intellect,  especially  in 
stirring  times  and  in  highly  organized  societies. 
Not  only  are  the  specific  joys  of  the  intellectual 
life,  including  the  consciousness  of  intellectual 
power,  forever  closed  to  those  who  stand  no  higher 
than  a  Chinese  coolie;   it  is  equally  certain  that 


Virtue  and  Happiness  189 

tact,  —  one-half  of  which  is  sagacity,  —  keenness  of 
observation,  retentiveness  of  memory,  and  power  of 
analysis  and  of  inference,  must  be  ranked  among 
the  important  instruments  for  the  attainment  of 
the  various  goods  of  life.  In  Shakespeare's  tran- 
script, their  part  is  nowhere  minimized.  In  the 
success  of  Henry  V.  and  the  failure  of  Brutus  ; 
in  the  mistakes  of  Cordelia  and  the  misfortunes 
of  Edgar  and  Gloucester;  in  the  tragic  blindness 
of  Othello;  yes,  in  the  wreck  of  Timon's  faith, 
defects  of  intellect  are  fully  as  potent  as  sins 
of  will. 

Nor  is  there  any  refusal,  at  least  in  the  great 
masterpieces,  to  acknowledge  the  role  of  that  incal- 
culable and  intractable  factor  that  men  call  chance. 
Its  range,  to  be  sure,  is  reduced  to  a  minimum ; 
but  such  treatment  would  be  demanded  under 
any  circumstances  by  the  principles  of  dramatic 
art.  The  function  of  tragedy  is  to  awaken  awe 
(not  fear,  as  Aristotle  taught)  and  pity.  Some- 
where within  the  length  and  breadth  of  human  life 
we  must  therefore  be  brought  into  the  presence  of 
power.  And  of  this  the  intellect  and  the  will  of 
man  are  the  chief  seat.  Still  more  impressive, 
however,  even  though  it  terrify,  is  the  revelation 
of  power  that  we  behold  in  those  unbending- 
resistless  laws  of  life  that  enfold  man  and  bear 
him  onward  to  destruction.  Before  the  sweep  of 
these  mighty  energies  the  accidental  must  be  kept 
in  the  background.  Accident,  to  be  sure,  is  not 
lawless.     But  it  is  the  product  of  a  confluence  of 


190     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

forces,  the  necessity  for  which  usually  cannot  be 
seen,  or  at  least  realized.  Furthermore,  the  acci- 
dental, as  that  which  is  occasional, lacks  the  massive- 
ness  which  gives  power  much  of  its  hold  upon  the 
imagination.  Tragedy,  therefore,  must  use  chance 
sparingly.  But  while  Shakespeare  minimizes  to  the 
utmost  the  influence  of  this  factor,  he  does  not  and 
cannot  entirely  conceal  it.  The  aged  Lear  craves 
love  and  sympathy.  No  one  can  help  remember- 
ing that  marriage  with  a  different  wife  might  have 
given  him  affectionate  daughters,  and  that,  as  it 
is,  if  death  had  taken  Goneril  and  Regan  in  their  in- 
fancy, the  old  king  never  would  have  seen  his  train 
disquantitied,  or  been  driven  out  into  the  night  and 
storm.  Illustrations  of  the  principle  are  number- 
less. Consider  one  more.  Not  even  an  Alfred  or 
a  St.  Louis  is  perfect.  Evidently  whether  the  flaw 
in  their  characters  shall  be  fatal  or  relatively  harm- 
less will  depend  upon  circumstances.  This  appears 
with  perfect  clearness  in  Othello.  Shakespeare 
has  used  every  resource  at  his  command  to  make 
Othello's  fate  the  outcome  of  his  character.  His 
suspicions  of  Desdemona's  unfaithfulness  do  not 
turn  upon  the  chance  loss  of  a  handkerchief  or  the 
casual  meeting  of  Cassio  and  Bianca.     They  spring 

from  the  hot  impetuosity  he  drew  from 
333-479.        his     barbaric     ancestors.      But     these 

deadly  forces  might  have  remained 
quiescent  forever  if  he  had  not  hitherto  been  sur- 
rounded by  honorable  men,  if  he  had  known  some- 
thing of  women  except  by  hearsay,  or  if  lago  had 


Virtue  and  Happiness  191 

taken  service  with  Genoa  rather  than  Venice. 
They  might  have  been  shut  up  in  harmlessness  had 
the  Turkish  fleet  come  down  upon  Cyprus  and  thus 
given  Desdemona  and  Cassio  time  to  clear  them- 
selves. Even  an  accidental  delay  of  five  minutes 
in  the  commission  of  the  murder  might  have 
brought  the  explanation  that  would  have  prevented 
the  catastrophe. 

Life,  as  Mr.  Spencer  has  taught  us,  is  an  ad- 
justment of  inner  to  outer  relations.  Thus  it  is 
possible  for  the  external  factor,  which  we  have 
been  calling  chance,  to  take  the  precedence  in 
determining  individual  fate.  Shakespeare's  one 
illustration  of  this  in  the  field  of  tragedy  is  the 
youthful  work,  Romeo  and  Juliet.  But  in  bring- 
ing danger  and  trial  to  a  happy  termination  he 
does  not  hesitate  to  show  what  it  can  do.  In  All 's 
Well  that  Ends  Well  the  virtues  of  Helena  would 
have  had  no  room  in  which  to  work,  had  it  not 
been  for  a  series  of  very  unusual  though  doubtless 
possible  accidents.  In  Cymbeline  the  lovers,  and  in 
The  Winter's  Tale  parents  and  daughter,  are  re- 
stored to  each  other  by  a  chain  of  circumstances  that 
genius  and  heroism  could  never  by  themselves  have 
forged.  While,  if  any  concatenation  of  chances 
could  be  appropriately  used  as  an  illustration  for 
the  text,  "Fortune  brings  in  some  boats  Cym. iv. 
that  are  not  steer'd,"  it  would  be  the  m-  46- 
disclosure  of  the  intrigue  in  Much  Ado  about 
Nothing  through  the  collision,  so  to  speak,  between 
loquacity  and  simplicity  under  the  dripping  eaves  of 


192     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Leonato's  palace.     In  life  as  in  whist,  what  is  given 
from  without  has  a  part  in  the  result. 

The  only  way  to  avoid  this  conclusion  is  to 
maintain,  with  Job's  friends,  that  the  fortunate  are 
really  the  righteous  (nowadays  they  call  themselves 
"  the  fittest "),  the  unfortunate  are  really  the  wicked. 
This  style  of  exegesis,  when  applied  to  the  minor 
characters  of  Macbeth,  for  instance,  leads  us  to 
such  conclusions  as  the  following  :  "  The  gracious 
Duncan  falls,  obviously  not  without  being  himself 
to  blame  for  his  fate,  for  whether  the  numerous 
revolts  against  his  government,  in  the  suppression 
of  which  Macbeth  proved  his  heroism,  were  the 
result  of  arbitrary  rule  and  injustice,  or  (as  the 
source  from  which  Shakespeare  drew  his  subject 
has  it)  of  unroyal  weakness  and  concession,  still, 
he  is  open  to  the  reproach  of  not  having  properly 
fulfilled  his  duties  as  king.  His  sons  are  suspected 
of  having  slain  their  father,  owing  to  their  precipi- 
tate flight,  which,  though  prudent,  was  unmanly, 
and  have,  therefore,  to  suffer  banishment.  Banquo, 
in  self-complacent  conceit,  believes  in  the  promises 
for  his  future  good  fortune,  and  thus  brings  de- 
struction upon  his  own  head.  Macduff's  wife  and 
children,  lastly,  suffer  for  the  thoughtlessness  of 
their  natural  protector,  who,  in  thinking  only  of 
himself,  and  forgetful  of  his  duty  as  father  and 
husband,  leaves  them  behind  to  secure  his  own 
safety.  He  is  punished  by  their  death,  which  at  the 
same  time  is  Lady  Macduff's  punishment  for  the 
unloving    asperity    with   which   she   rails   at   her 


Virtue  and  Happiness  193 

husband's  conduct,  and  thus  gives  us  an  insight 
into  a  marriage  which  was  perhaps  also  a  motive 
for  Macduff's  hasty  and  secret  flight." 1  Examining 
this  formidable  list  of  casualties  it  will  be  impossible 
for  the  reader  who  has  reached  middle  life  to 
refrain  from  feeling  highly  flattered  at  finding 
himself  alive.2 

The  preceding  justification  of  the  ways  of  Shake- 
speare with  his  characters  is  the  fruit  of  German 
thoroughness.  But  the  greatest  achievement  in  this 
manner  must  be  set  down  to  the  credit  of  Missouri. 
The  untimely  death  of  Desdemona  is  commonly 
looked  upon  as  presenting  some  difficulties  to  the 
good-happy  theory  of  life.  Some  thinkers  have  ex- 
plained it  by  pointing  out  that  she  told  fibs  ;  others 
have  reminded  us  that  she  disobeyed  her  father. 
But  such  considerations  are  either  ignored  or 
brushed  aside  by  the  St.  Louis  critic,  for  he  has  a 
profounder  thought.  The  crime  of  Desdemona,  he 
tells  us,  consisted  in  marrying  a  man  of  a  different 

1  Hermann  Ulrici,  Shakespeare's  Dramatic  Art,  Book  IV. 
chap.  iv.  English  translation  by  L.  Dora  Schmitz,  Vol.  I.,  p. 
474. 

2  The  most  ingenious  part  of  this  critique  is  undoubtedly  the 
punishment  of  Macduff  through  the  death  of  his  children.  Readers 
of  John  G.  Saxe  may  remember  a  parallel  case.  Hoho  of  the 
Golden  Belt  was  a  high-born  Chinese  who  murdered  seven  wives 
in  succession  on  grounds  of  financial  exigencies.  Having  been 
detected  in  his  last  venture,  he  was  condemned  by  an  unfeeling 
judge  to  be  hanged.  But  through  the  interposition  of  his  friends 
his  punishment  was  graciously  commuted  by  the  Emperor  to  the 
decapitation  of  his  three  brothers,  and  the  beating  of  his  slaves 
three  times  a  day  for  a  month. 

13 


194     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

race.1  In  fairness  to  Mr.  Snider  I  ought  to  add 
that  he  does  not  for  a  moment  suppose  that  the 
gentle  Desdemona  meant  the  least  harm  in  the 
world.  But  he  thinks  that  they  who  unwittingly 
ally  themselves  with  the  powers  of  evil  must  expect 
the  same  fate  as  the  conscious  seekers  after  wicked- 
ness. Possibly  they  must.  But  if  right  and  wrong 
depend  upon  the  intention,  this  is  an  arrangement 
which  our  sense  of  justice  can  never  call  moral.  In 
fact,  when  Job's  friends  are  reduced  to  such  straits 
as  this,  they  have  practically  given  up  their  case. 

It  is  obvious  whither  our  study  has  been  leading 
us.  Happiness  requires  the  co-operating  activity 
of  two  factors.  The  first  is  the  desire  or  taste 
within ;  the  second  is  the  means  of  satisfying 
or  meeting  it,  which  in  the  last  analysis  are  sup- 
plied directly  or  indirectly  by  the  physical  or  social 
environment.  Accordingly  the  question  of  happi- 
ness can  no  more  be  decided  by  confining  attention 
to  the  former  condition  alone  than  it  can  by  an  ex- 
amination of  the  latter.  However,  the  environment 
commonly  supplies  a  certain  minimum  of  material. 
In  such  cases  deep  and  wide-spreading  moral  and, 
if  possible,  intellectual  interests,  united  with  the 
patience,  self-control,  and  skill  to  make  the  most 
out  of  our  store,  afford  an  apparent  independence 
of  externals,  and  thus  promise  a  happiness  that  no 
storm  shall  be  able  to  sweep  away.  This  promise 
will  be  fulfilled  in  the  great  majority  of  instances. 

1  Denton  J.  Snider,  System  of  Shakespeare's  Dramas,  Vol.  I. 
p.  104  ff. 


Virtue  and  Happiness  195 

But  we  cannot  lay  down  a  universal  law,  for  there 
is  a  mysterious  exception.  Shakespeare  has  shown 
us  that  there  is  a  condition  in  which  no  internal 
worth,  no  gift  of  genius,  no  harmonious  adjustment 
of  outer  resources  to  inner  needs  and  wishes  can 
avail  to  give  contentment  or  inspire  the  desire  to 
see  to-morrow's  sun. 

The  representation  of  this  fact  we  owe  to  the 
difficulties  in  which  the  poet  involved  himself  by  his 
habit  of  using  as  material  for  his  plots  old  stories 
that  had  caught  the  popular  fancy.  Of  all  prepos- 
terous fabrications  that  he  ever  deigned  to  employ, 
those  that  form  the  basis  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice 
are  the  most  absurd  ;  and  among  these  the  prize  for 
inanity  must  certainly  be  awarded  to  the  story  of 
the  pound  of  flesh.  It  assumes  that  an  experienced 
man  of  affairs,  possessing  a  credit  that  would  have 
given  him  his  choice  of  terms,  accepts  a  loan  from 
a  money-lender  whose  obvious  aim  in  the  transac- 
tion is  to  get  a  chance  to  murder  him  by  due  pro- 
cess of  law.  Or,  if  this  interpretation  be  rejected  on 
the  ground  that  Antonio  would  naturally  suppose 
he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  paying  off  the  debt, 
the  assumption  must  be  that  a  thoroughly  honor- 
able man  enters  into  an  arrangement  by  which  he 
plans  to  obtain  a  loan  without  interest  from  an 
acknowledged  enemy. 

We  are  furthermore  required  to  believe  that  as 
the  report  of  one  disaster  follows  upon  another, 
this  practical  business  man  neither  makes  an  effort 
to  communicate  with  his  friend  a  few  miles  distant 


196     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

—  who  in  his  new-found  happiness  has  forgotten 
his  benefactor,  —  nor  consults  a  lawyer,  nor  (ap- 
parently) makes  any  attempt  to  borrow  money 
from  professional  money  lenders  or  from  the 
brother  merchants  whom  he  had  himself  so  often 
assisted.  We  may  indeed  suppose  that  he  ap- 
proached his  friends  and  was  unsuccessful,  as 
Timon  was ;  but  this  hypothesis  would  introduce 
a  tragic  element  into  the  drama  which  I  think 
lay  outside  of  the  intention  of  the  poet.  Besides, 
it  would  not  help  in  the  least.  For  it  is  absurd  to 
suppose  that  no  money  lender  could  be  found,  if  not 
in  Venice,  then  elsewhere,  who  could  be  induced  to 
lend  him  a  comparatively  small  sum  —  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  in  present  values  —  at  a  rate  of  interest 
high  enough  to  cover  the  risk.  Even  this  is  not  a 
complete  statement  of  the  absurdities  of  the  situa- 
tion, but  I  forbear. 

These  manifold  difficulties  are  overcome  by  a 
device  than  which  nothing  simpler  could  be  im- 
agined. Antonio  is  represented  at  the  opening 
of  the  play  as  overclouded  with  a  profound  mel- 
ancholy. He  is  weary  of  life,  and  cares  nothing 
to  draw  out  a  joyless  existence  to  a  greater  length. 
He  has  too  much  principle  to  deliberately  seek 
death;  but  if  chance  will  have  him  killed  then 
chance  may  kill  him.  The  situation,  it  may  be  re- 
membered, recurs  in  As  You  Like  It, 
I.  ii.  .  . 

195-205.        an(l  again  in  Cymbeline,  a  fact  that  will 

V.  i.  22-33 ;  not  surprise  the  reader  who  has  noticed 
iii  66-83.  .  .  .  -,      . 

the   frequency  with  which  a  device   is 


Virtue  and  Happiness  197 

repeated  that  has  once  proved  effective.  I  must 
add  that  the  idea  need  not  have  been  original  with 
Shakespeare.  If  he  had  read  Montaigne's  Essays 
either  in  the  original  or  in  the  unpublished  manu- 
script of  Elorio's  translation,  he  may  have  been 
familiar  with  the  passage  in  which  the  acute 
Frenchman,  echoing,  no  doubt,  a  suggestion  of 
Xenophon,  clears  up  a  somewhat  similar  incident 
which  has  occasioned  much  perplexity.  "  In 
observing  the  wisdom  of  Socrates  and  many  cir- 
cumstances of  his  condemnation,"  writes  Mon- 
taigne, "  I  should  dare  to  believe  that  he  himself, 
by  collusion,  in  some  measure  purposely  contrib- 
uted to  it;  fearing  by  a  longer  life,  he  having 
then  reached  his  seventieth  year,  to  see  his  lofty 
mind  and  universal  knowledge  cramped  and  stupe- 
fied by  old  age." 1 

In  converting  the  string-pulled  puppet  of  the 
Italian  story  into  a  living  creature  of  flesh  and 
blood,  Shakespeare  has  done  more  than  supply  one 
of  his  characters  with  an  intelligible  motive  for 
walking  into  an  open  trap ;  he  has  negatived  — 
whether  he  knew  it  or  not  —  the  universality  of  a 
certain  theory  of  life.  Antonio  has  wealth,  friends, 
social  and  business  position,  and  an  outlet  for  his 
energies  through  commercial  transactions  that 
carry  his  thoughts  to  the  four  corners  of  the  world. 
He  impresses  us  as  being  a  man  of  culture,  and  his 
generosity  to  all  that  needed  help  in  Venice  speaks 
of  a  life  enriched  by  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity. 

1  Essays,  Book  III.,  chap,  ii.,  sub  Jin. 


198     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

By  all  the  rules,  he  ought  to  be  happy ;  yet  he  is 
sad  and  knows  not  why.  We  attempt  to  explain 
this  mysterious  fact  by  a  reference  to  temperament, 
a  word  which,  in  the  main,  marks  our  ignorance. 
But  this  we  do  know :  with  some,  unmotived  mel- 
ancholy is  a  companion  through  life  ;  with  others, 
as  Antonio,  it  comes  without  warning  from  a  clear 
sky,  and  may  again  as  unexpectedly  disappear. 
Where  it  abides,  intellectual  endowment,  cultivated 
tastes,  and  character,  are  as  powerless  to  produce 
real  joy  in  existence  as  is  wealth  or  any  other  stock 
target  of  the  conventional  moralist. 

In  facing  this  fact,  the  correlative  truth  will,  of 
course,  not  be  forgotten.  There  are  men  of  small 
intellectual  and  moral  calibre,  harassed,  it  may  be, 
by  financial  troubles  or  ill-health,  stripped  of  friends 
through  the  incursions  of  death,  whose  cheerfulness, 
nevertheless,  flows  on  like  a  great  river.  The  bar- 
ren lands  through  which  they  journey  glow  with  a 
light  that  comes  all  from  within.  And  as  they 
look  back  upon  what  we  should  call  life's  rough 
and  lonely  way,  they  declare  they  would  gladly 
travel  the  same  road  a  second  time.  Such  persons 
do  not  appear  in  Shakespeare's  plays,  for  he  has 
no  room  for  detailed  studies  of  commonplace  men 
or  commonplace  lives.  Falstaff  we  cannot  consider 
an  example ;  for,  apart  from  other  objections,  he 
seems  to  be  gay  rather  than  happy.  Perhaps  the 
nearest  approach  to  the  type  is  the  rogue,  Autoly- 
cus,  in  The  Winter's  Tale.  But  he  is  nothing  more 
than  a  sketch ;  so  that  whether  his  jokes  and  his 


Virtue  and  Happiness  199 

songs  stand  for  mere  gayety,  or  for  childlike,  un- 
motived  joy  in  being  alive,  we  cannot  determine. 
The  sunshine  in  the  faces  of  the  best  among  the 
southern  negroes  of  the  last  generation  shows  how 
little  in  the  way  of  outer  accessories  or  inner  re- 
sources these  natures  require. 

Out  of  the  complicated  mass  of  details  that  have 
passed  before  our  view,  the  law  of  the  correlation 
between  character  and  welfare  emerges  with  un- 
mistakable clearness.  Evil-doing  tends  to  loss, 
reckoning  values  as  even  the  evil-doer  himself 
would  estimate  them.  Even  where  the  result  is 
not  "  outer  "  failure,  we  may  expect  to  find  a  life 
poor  in  compelling  and  satisfying  interests,  bare  of 
enthusiasm,  haunted  by  a  sense  of  isolation.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  tendency  of  virtue  is  exactly 
the  reverse,  if  by  virtue  be  understood  active  de- 
votion to  moral  ideals,  and  not  the  mere  frigid 
respectability  that  is  content  with  a  negative  stain- 
lessness.  Other  things  being  equal,  the  man  vivi- 
fied and  inspired  by  these  ideals  will  attain  success 
where  the  evil-minded  and  the  lukewarm  miscarry. 
And  even  when  the  success  that  the  crowd  strug- 
gles for  is  missed,  or  when  fortune  checkers  the 
journey  with  suffering  and  disappointment,  other 
tendencies  are  at  work  in  his  favor.  In  so  far  as 
he  habitually  dwells  within  the  circle  of  other  men's 
lives,  his  sorrows  are  divided,  his  joys  multiplied  ; 
and  his  interests,  by  their  mere  extent,  assume  a 
fixity  and  a  security  unknown  to  him  who  risks 
his  all  in  a  single  ship.     However,  here,  as  in  the 


200     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

case  of  health,  culture,  and  every  other  good,  we 
can  speak  of  nothing  more  inevitable  than  tenden- 
cies. In  the  intricate,  close-woven  web  of  life  no 
thread  runs  straight.  The  conjunction  is  more 
nearly  universal,  however,  for  wickedness  than  for 
virtue,  because  it  requires  a  smaller  combination 
of  conditions  to  make  us  miserable  than  to  make 
us  happy.  Thus  it  comes  about  that  the  laws 
which  link  consequences  with  conduct  are  more 
easily  discoverable  in  the  life  of  a  criminal  than  in 
the  life  of  a  saint. 

In  the  commentary  of  Gervinus  we  may  read 
that  Richard  III.  came  to  grief  "  in  consequence 
of  the  merited  justice  and  due  punishment  of  God." 
This  seems  to  mean  that  he  was  cut  off  by  an 
arbitrary  interference  with  the  order  of  things  on 
the  part  of  an  external  omnipotent  Agency.  That 
doctrine  was  not  derived  from  the  text.  For  the 
gory  drama  that  came  from  the  hands  of  the  youth- 
ful Shakespeare  distinctly  teaches  that,  given  man 
as  he  is,  it  lies  in  the  very  nature  of  moral  evil  to 
react  upon  the  perpetrator  with  effects  similar  in 
kind  to  those  which  issue  from  his  own  will.  And 
as  the  young  dramatist  gains  in  power  and  insight, 
and  the  human  world  in  its  completeness  begins  to 
take  form  under  his  magician's  wand,  he  shows 
that  the  laws  which  make  the  evil-doer  "  merely 
Ail's  Well  his  own  traitor  depend  upon  the  in- 
iv.  iii.  25.  most  constitution  of  man  as  a  social 
being ;  that  they  hold,  whatever  view  we  may  take 
of  human  origin  or  destiny ;  that  they  no  more 


Virtue  and  Happiness  201 

need  regulation  from  without  to  assure  their  con- 
tinued working  than  do  the  laws  of  physiology ; 
that  we  are  not  called  upon  to  have  faith  in  them, 
but  have  only  to  shake  ourselves  free  from  the 
mental  sluggishness  into  which  we  allow  ourselves 
to  sink,  and  see  them  for  ourselves. 

It  is  now  possible  to  answer,  in  part,  at  least,  the 
third  of  the  great  problems  forced  upon  our  atten- 
tion by  the  phenomena  of  moral  imbecility.1  To 
the  conscienceless,  the  good  man's  ideals  of  con- 
duct necessarily  seem  absurd  and  contemptible, 
the  good  man  a  stupid  weakling.  Dostoieffsky 
writes  of  a  noted  bandit,  a  fellow-convict  with  him 
in  his  Siberian  prison :  "  I  tried  once  or  twice  to 
speak  to  Orloff  about  his  exploits ;  this  was  evi- 
dently a  sore  point  with  him,  but  nevertheless  he 
always  answered  me  readily.  But  when  it  dawned 
upon  him  that  I  was  appealing  to  his  conscience, 
his  whole  manner  changed  at  once ;  he  stared  at 
me  with  an  expression  of  mingled  pride,  contempt, 
and  even  pity,  as  if  I  had  suddenly  become  in  his 
eyes  a  miserable,  silly  little  boy,  to  whom  he  could 
not  talk  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  grown-up  man. 
A  moment  later  he  burst  into  a  good-humored 
laugh,  and  I  am  afraid  that  he  may  often  have 
laughed  at  the  remembrance  of  my  words."  2  It  is 
in  this  spirit  that  the  royal  brigand,  Richard  III., 
adds  to  the  blessing  of  his  mother  the  ironical  epi- 
logue, "  and  make  me  die  a  good  old  Richard  m. 
man."     It  is  possible,  we  see,  to  meet  n-  "• 109- 

1  See  above,  p.  131.  a  Buried  Alive,  chap.  iv. 


202     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

contempt  with  contempt,  and  if  Albany  may  say 

Lear  iv.  *°  Goneril,  "  Wisdom  and  goodness  to 

"•  38-  the  vile  seem  vile,"  it  will  be  quite  in 

Cf .  Dionyza  her    spirit    to    reply :    "  Wisdom    and 

in  Pericles  goodness  to  the  milk-livered  and  the  ser- 

IV.  Hi.  49-51.  6..  .  „ 

vile  seem  absurdly  important  matters. 
Who,  then,  is  right,  or  are  both  equally  right,  each 
from  his  own  point  of  view  ? 

Contempt  is  the  reaction  upon  supposed  weak- 
ness, whether  of  intellect  or  of  will.  That  perfec- 
tion of  character  means  not  weakness  of  will  but 
power  has  already  been  shown.1  That  the  evil- 
doer who  kills  his  better  impulses  is  an  intellectual 
weakling  should  now  be  evident.  For  if  it  is  the 
part  of  wisdom  to  guide  oneself  by  probabilities, 
then  the  evil-doer  in  choosing  the  worse  has  taken 
the  foolish  part.  I  do  not  say  he  will  discover  that 
he  might  have  done  better.  What  he  will  find  is 
that  the  world  is  a  dreary  place  for  such  as  he, 
and  its  promises  lies.  Meanwhile  those  he  calls 
fools  have  placed  themselves  in  the  way  of  obtain- 
ing the  good  gifts  which  wait  for  those  who  are 
warm  of  heart  and  strong  of  will.  Compare  the 
career  of  Henry  V.  with  that  of  his  father ;  com- 
pare the  life  of  Prospero  with  that  of  Iago.  The 
former  in  each  case  contains  not  merely  more  to 
admire  but,  quite  apart  from  the  joy  of  possessing 
the  admirable,  more  to  satisfy.  Moral  laws,  then, 
possess  at  least  this  much  objectivity :  they  are  the 

1  See  above,  p.  18  ff. 


Virtue  and  Happiness  203 

laws  of  both  individual  and  social  welfare  in  the 
widest  sense  of  the  term.  Whether  they  possess 
or  indeed  require  objectivity  in  any  other  sense  is 
a  problem  that  lies  beyond  the  boundaries  of  our 
inquiry. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ETHICS   AND   METAPHYSICS 

We  have  now  completed  our  survey  of  the  moral 
life  so  far  as  Shakespeare  can  serve  as  guide.  But 
our  studies,  especially  our  studies  in  crime,  have 
left  us  with  problems  more  tremendous  and,  to 
many  persons,  more  insistent  than  any  we  have  as 
yet  considered.  The  world-old  perplexities  about 
non-moral  and  moral  evil,  —  failure,  and  suffering, 
and  wickedness,  —  have  forced  themselves  upon 
our  attention  and  press  for  solution. 

The  place  and  function  of  evil  in  the  world  is  a 
subject  that  evidently  lies  outside  the  sphere  of 
descriptive  ethics.  We  may  talk  glibly  —  and  cor- 
rectly, too,  —  about  adjustment  to  the  needs  of  ex- 
istence. But  why,  we  must  go  on  to  inquire,  were 
not  the  conditions  of  existence  so  arranged  that 
those  fitted  for  survival  should  be  at  the  same  time 
fitted  to  live  a  thoroughly  satisfactory  life,  and  to 
play  their  part  in  a  perfect  social  order.  To  an- 
swer such  questions  we  must  know  the  purpose  of 
the  universe,  or  whether  it  really  has  a  purpose. 
We  must  know  whether  this  passing  life  is  a  part 
of  a  larger  whole.  Most  of  all  we  must  know 
whether  there  is  a  Providential  government  of  the 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  205 

world.  We  are  learning  that  all  is  law :  may  we 
believe  with  similar  confidence  that  all  is  love  ?  If 
this  great  question  can  only  be  answered  in  the 
affirmative  we  can  let  the  other  puzzles  go.  The 
solutions  of  the  problem  of  evil  offered  from  time 
to  time  by  "  God's  spies  "  may  make  us  smile ;  but 
faith  will  now  serve  instead  of  knowledge,  and  we 
shall  feel  that  we  can  afford  to  wait.  Thus  does 
ethics  lead  up  to  the  supreme  problem  of  meta- 
physics. Thus  does  our  own  study  lead  up  to  the 
question :  What  does  Shakespeare  teach  about  the 
nature  of  ultimate  reality  ? 

If  we  think  it  worth  while  to  attempt  an  answer 
to  this  question  we  must  realize  that  our  inquiry 
has  been  given  a  different  direction  from  that 
which  it  has  been  following  in  the  preceding 
chapters.  There  we  were  studying  the  results  of 
the  dramatist's  observations.  What  generaliza- 
tions he  formed  on  the  basis  of  the  material  he 
collected,  or  whether  he  sought  to  classify  and 
arrange  it  at  all,  did  not  concern  us  in  the  least. 
Here,  on  the  other  hand,  the  man  behind  the  work 
is  everything.  What  he  thought  about  an  order  of 
reality  inaccessible  to  observation  has  become  the 
object  of  investigation. 

Since  the  days  of  Kant  it  has  been  generally 
agreed  that  all  metaphysics  must  rest  upon  a  theory 
of  knowledge.  That  is  to  say,  before  attempting  a 
solution  of  the  problem  of  the  nature  and  constitu- 
tion of  the  supersensible,  we  must  take  stock  of 
our    intellectual    resources,    must   ask    ourselves 


206     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

whether  there  are  means  at  our  disposal  for  accom- 
plishing our  purpose.  In  like  manner  we  shall  do 
well  to  preface  our  own  special  inquiry  with  a  few 
prolegomena  to  every  future  system  of  dramatic 
hermeneutics.  We  must  ask  how  a  writer  of  plays 
can  disclose  his  views  on  matters  metaphysical, 
provided  he  makes  use  of  no  medium  of  expression 
but  the  stage.  Lack  of  thought  on  this  subject 
has  been  the  ruin  of  many  a  beautiful  system  of 
Shakespearean  theology. 

The  first  device  which  suggests  itself  is  that 
employed  by  Goethe  in  Faust.  The  play  opens, 
we  remember,  with  a  prologue  in  heaven  that  shall 
justify  the  ways  of  God  with  the  tempted  and  err- 
ing seeker  for  life's  summum  bonum ;  it  closes 
with  the  reception  into  Paradise  of  the  same  soil- 
stained  traveller,  who  through  his  many  wanderings 
had  been  ever  dimly  conscious  of  the  direction  of 
his  goal.  But  this  very  example  shows  how  fal- 
lacious may  be  any  inference  from  the  creation  to 
the  mind  of  the  creator.  Only  in  the  vaguest  and 
most  shadowy  fashion  do  the  introduction  and  con- 
clusion of  Faust  represent  Goethe's  beliefs.  And 
it  is  not  essentially  inaccurate  to  maintain  that 
these  scenes  meant  neither  more  nor  less  to  him 
than  did  the  Norse  mythology  to  the  composer  of  the 
Ring  des  Nibelungen.  Hence,  when  we  see  the 
supersensible  represented  upon  the  stage  we  are 
bound  to  ask  first,  what  is  its  artistic  significance,  or 
what  facts  of  this  life  does  it  symbolize  ?  Further- 
more, the  dramatist  knows  we  must  ask  it.     If  it 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  207 

have  such  significance,  if  it  symbolize  non-meta- 
physical truths,  we  have  no  criterion  for  determin- 
ing how  much  is  creed  and  how  much  is  art. 

The  application  of  this  principle  to  our  own 
problem  is  obvious.  On  the  wind-swept  platform 
before  the  Castle  of  Elsinore  appears  a  visitor  from 
another  world.  What  does  this  apparition  mean  ? 
At  least  this  much  :  though  one  rise  from  the  dead, 
Hamlet  cannot  be  moved  to  action.  A  short  time 
will  pass  and  the  impression  that  made  his  brain 
reel  will  have  retained  only  so  much  force  as  to 
make  him  uneasy  in  his  inactivity.  Within  a  week, 
or  possibly  a  fortnight,  a  gentleman  of  Normandy 
will  arrive  in  Denmark,  bringing  remarkable  re- 
ports from  Paris  of  Laertes'  skill  with  the  rapier. 
At  once  emulation  will  suggest  to  Hamlet  a  wel- 
come substitute  for  duty.  And  from  that  time 
forth,  while  his  father's  spirit  is  waiting  impa- 
tiently for  the  promised  vengeance,  he  will  spend 
his  days  in  continuous  practice  to  become  the 
equal  of  a  careless  young  gallant  in  swordsman- 
ship.1    This  midnight  vision  thus  tells  us  nothing 

1  These  facts  are  obtained  by  comparing  Act  IV.,  scene  vii.,  11. 
71-106,  the  dialogue  between  the  king  and  Laertes,  with  what 
Hamlet  himself  says  to  Horatio  in  Act  V.,  scene  ii.,  1.  220.  The 
time  can  be  determined  in  either  of  two  ways.  First  from  Hamlet's 
words  :  "  Since  [Laertes]  went  into  France  I  have  been  in  con- 
tinual practice."  Laertes  left  Denmark  on  the  same  day  on  which 
the  dead  king's  ghost  appeared  to  Hamlet.  Second :  Laertes  and 
the  king  form  their  plot  against  Hamlet's  life  within  a  very  short 
time  after  the  presentation  of  the  Murder  of  Gonzago  by  the 
players.  This  was  four  months  after  King  Hamlet's  death,  as 
appears  from  Act  III.,  scene  ii.,  1.  136.  The  interval  between  the 
death  of  the  king  and  the  interview  upon  the  castle  platform,  was  a 


208      Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

of  Shakespeare's  beliefs  about  a  life  beyond  the 
grave.  For  whether  it  be  thought  to  represent  in 
itself  fact  or  fancy,  it  belongs  where  it  is  in  virtue 
of  its  artistic  effectiveness  and  the  revelation  it 
affords  of  Hamlet's  character. 

There  is,  however,  one  way  in  which  a  dramatist 
can  stamp  unequivocally  his  confession  of  faith 
upon  the  products  of  his  imagination.  That 
doughty  old  gladiator,  Ben  Jonson,  never  left  auditor 
or  reader  in  a  moment's  doubt  about  certain  of  his 
metaphysical  views.  That  he  regarded  atheism  as 
a  contemptible  hypothesis,  and  that  he  rejected 
totally  the  puritan  theory  of  salvation,  are  witnessed 
by  the  abuse  heaped  at  every  turn  upon  the 
adherents  of  these  doctrines.  A  thoroughly  objec- 
tive dramatist,  however,  would  be  incapable  of  such 
enormities.  Shakespeare,  for  instance,  never  per- 
mits one  character  after  another  to  indulge  in 
wholesale  abuse  of  any  class  of  men,  except  in  the 
case  of  the  "  mob."  And  even  the  unpleasant  im- 
pression left  in  our  minds  by  the  wearisome  girding 
at  the  many -headed  multitude  is  mitigated  by  the 
sympathy  uniformly  exhibited  in  his  treatment  of 
the  humble  and  commonplace  individuals  whose 
coming  together  forms  its  substance. 

Theological  beliefs  Shakespeare  never  attacks 
through  their  adherents.    It  is,  indeed,  quite  gener- 

little  less  than  two  months  (see  Act  I.,  scene  ii.,  1.  138).  If,  there- 
fore, we  subtract  the  two  months  that  have  elapsed  since  the  arrival 
of  the  Norman  (IV.,  vii.,  82,)  we  can  hardly  date  it  at  a  point  more 
than  a  fortnight  removed  from  the  night  on  which  Hamlet  received 
his  commission. 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  209 

ally  supposed  that  in  Malvolio  and  Angelo  puri- 
tanism  is  held  up  to  ridicule  and  contempt.  But 
no  assumption  could  be  more  arbitrary.  Angelo 
is  not  an  ordinary  hypocrite,  as  is  often  asserted. 
He  is  a  man  who  thinks  himself  a  servant  of  con- 
science, whereas  in  reality  he  is  merely  a  slave  of 
respectability.  The  possession  of  unlimited  power 
reveals  his  true  character  to  himself  as  it  does 
to  the  world.  But  were  he  Tartuffe  himself,  it 
would  not  follow  that  some  one  else  must  be 
a  whited  sepulchre.  Least  of  all  that  the  doc- 
trines of  predestination  and  absolute  decrees  must 
be  false.  Malvolio,  again,  is  drawn  without  a  trace 
of  bitterness.  It  would  make  no  difference  even 
if  he  were  not,  for  he  is  declared  not  to  be  a  puri- 
tan. "  Sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  puritan,"  says 
the  sharp-tongued  Maria.  "  0,  if  I  t.  n.  n. 
thought  that,  I  'Id  beat  him  like  a  dog !  "  *»•  151- 
replies  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek.  Indeed,  the  tradi- 
tional view  as  to  the  tendency  of  this  piece  of 
characterization  turns  the  facts  topsy-turvy.  For 
surely  if  to  be  pilloried  by  a  fool  is  the  highest 
form  of  praise,  no  eulogy  upon  a  religious  sect 
could  have  been  more  flattering  than  Sir  Andrew's 
abuse. 

A  dramatist,  however,  might  make  use  of  another 
device  for  presenting  his  own  metaphysical  views. 
He  could  exhibit  them  as  the  beliefs  of  his  best 
and  wisest  characters.  This  does  not  differ  in 
principle  from  Ben  Jonson's  method,  but  in  actual 
operation  it  is  at  least  compatible  with   decency. 

U 


2io     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

According  to  what  seems  to  be  at  present  a  wide- 
spread opinion,  Shakespeare  availed  himself  of  this 
device.  And  if  we  may  believe  some  intelligent 
men  who  claim  to  have  either  read  or  seen  the 
plays,  he  used  it  to  recommend  theological  and 
metaphysical  agnosticism.  Waiving  for  the  pres- 
ent the  more  general  assertion,  let  us  consider 
the  proposition  that  Shakespeare's  most  completely 
rounded  characters  are  skeptics. 

This  statement,  in  the  form  in  which  it  usually 
appears,  can  be  shown  to  be  baseless.  Brutus  — 
to  begin  with  the  opening  play  of  the  third  period 
—  seems  to  have  shared  with  the  contemporaneous 
Stoics  their  uncertainty  about  a  future  life.  But 
we  have  no  ground  to  question  his  confession  of 
faith  in  "  a  providence  of  some  high  powers  that 
J.  C.  govern  us  below."     To  be  sure,  a  false 

v.  i.  107.  conception  of  honor  does  not  permit 
him  to  act  upon  it  in  the  decisive  matter  of  taking 
his  life.  But  in  this  respect  he  differs  not  at  all 
from  many  a  duellist  of  a  later  age,  nor,  indeed, 
from  the  high-minded  Hector,  who  also,  as  may 
be  remembered,  prefers  the  good  opinion  of  others 
before  an  acknowledged  duty. 

The  reputation  of  Hamlet  as  the  typical  doubter, 
the  imaginative  incorporation  of  the  spirit  of 
Montaigne,  is  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  vaga- 
ries of  Shakespearean  criticism.  Here  is  a  man 
whose  fate  turns  upon  a  visit  from  a  disembodied 
spirit ;  a  man  who  is  expected  by  his  father  to 
count  it  a  double  wronor  for  the  victim  of  assas- 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  211 

sination  to  be  cut  off  in  the  midst  of  his  sins,  with 
no  chance  to  purge  his  soul  by  the  ministrations 
of  the  priest ;  a  man  who  fears  no  ghost,  because 
he  can  say: 

"  And  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that,     Hamlet  I. 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself  ?  "  iv-  66- 

a  man  who,  when  the  opportunity  to  discharge  his 

commission  thrusts  itself  upon  him,  succeeds  in 

disguising  to   himself   his    own   unwillingness   to 

take    the    irrevocable    step   by   the    consideration 

that  to  kill  one  engaged  in  prayer  is  to  send  his 

soul  to  a  better  world  ;  a  man  so  com-    ni.  iii. 

pletely  dominated  by  the  religious  view    73_95' 

of  life  that  he  falls  into  the  error  of  mis-    cf.  in.  iv. 

taking  the  results  of  his  own  insight  for    ^^T.21,0! 

•  •  <•  IV.  u.  12- 

the   miraculous    interference   of  Provi-    23,  iv.  iii. 

dence  in  his  behalf.    Truly,  a  skeptic  of    ?9'7^  v" 
this  kind  would  have  little  to  fear  from 
the  fires  of  the  Inquisition. 

What,  then,  lies  upon  the  other  side  ?     Nothing 
but  an  ambiguous  phrase  or  two  in  the  great  solilo- 
quy of  Act  III.     "  To  be,  or  not  to  be  : " 
I    have   known    intelligent     men    who 
understand  this  as  the  expression  of  a  doubt  about 
immortality.     As   a  matter   of  fact,  the   context 
shows   that    Hamlet  is    here   dallying   with    the 
thought    of    suicide.      "  To   sleep :    perchance   to 
dream."     Immortality,  we   are  told,  is 
here  presented  as  nothing  more  than  a 
bare  possibility.     Such,  indeed,  is  the  most  natural 


212     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

interpretation  of  these  five  words  when  isolated 
from  their  context.  And  although  the  effect  of 
the  "perchance"  seems  to  be  neutralized  by  the 
subsequent  treatment  of  the  possibility  as  a  factor 
sufficiently  important  to  determine  the  direction 
of  action,  yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  passage 
does  not  seem  easy  to  harmonize  with  the  explicit 
declarations  of  other  portions  of  the  text.  Two 
explanations  of  the  phrase  are  possible.  One  is 
that  for  the  moment  Shakespeare  had  forgotten 
Hamlet,  and  was  bodying  forth  his  own  world- 
weariness,  his  own  doubts,  and  fears,  and  long- 
ings for  release.  As  the  commentators  have 
pointed  out,  there  is  much  to  commend  this  view. 
For  instance,  complaints  about 

"  The  law's  delay, 
L.  72.  The  insolence  of  office  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes," 

sound  rather  oddly  in  the  mouth  of  a  prince,  unless 
we  suppose  him  to  be  taking  an  exceptionally  ob- 
jective view  of  the  evils  of  life.  And, 
"the  undiscover'd  country  from  whose 
bourn  no  traveller  returns,"  still  remains,  after  all 
the  ingenuity  that  has  been  expended  upon  it,  an 
inappropriate  expression  for  one  who  has  seen  his 
father  rise  from  the  grave.  This  hypothesis  is  thus 
not  without  some  plausibility.  But  since  its  ac- 
ceptance would  involve  us  in  the  inconclusive  con- 
troversies of  Shakespearean  biography,  we  ought  to 
try  to  get  along  without  it.     This  seems  perfectly 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  213 

possible.  For  the  difficulties  disappear  if  we  as- 
sume that  there  are  two  Hamlets :  the  one  confident 
as  a  parish  priest  of  the  truth  of  his  religion ;  the 
other  a  student  of  the  world's  thought,  who  some- 
times rubs  his  eyes  in  uncertainty  whether  his 
beliefs  are  dream  or  substance.  The  basis  on 
which  this  hypothesis  rests  is  far  from  being  an 
impossibility.  Some  of  the  most  thoroughly  con- 
vinced Christians  know  moments  of  darkness, 
when  the  foundations  of  religious  faith  seem  to 
be  crumbling  beneath  their  feet.  We  shall  hardly 
count  Alfred  Edersheim  a  theological  skeptic.  Yet 
he  makes  this  confession :  "  Let  no  one  dare  to 
say  that  the  faith  of  John  the  Baptist  failed,  at 
least  till  the  dark  waters  have  rolled  up  to  his  own 
soul.  For  mostly  all  and  each  of  us  must  pass 
through  some  like  experience  ;  and  only  our  own 
hearts  and  God  know  how  death-bitter  are  the 
doubts,  whether  of  head  or  of  heart,  when  question 
after  question  raises,  as  with  devilish  hissing,  its 
head,  and  earth  and  heaven  seem  alike  silent  to 
us." *  Unless  the  dramatist  has  deceived  us,  such 
moods  were  but  occasional  in  Hamlet.  His  pre- 
vailing attitude  was  one  of  faith. 

Not  to  weary  the  reader  with  more  details  to 
the  same  effect,  we  may  pass  on  to  the  last  of  the 
"  skeptics,"  namely  Prospero.  Every  school-boy 
knows  the  lines  ending,  "our  little  life  Tempest iv. 
is  rounded  with  a   sleep."     This,  it  is    *•  157- 

1  Alfred  Edersheim,  The  Life  and  Times  of  Jesus  the  Messiah. 
Vol.  I.,  p.  667. 


214     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

asserted,  can  mean  only  that  death  ends  all.  If 
so,  St.  Luke  must  have  been  denying  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul  when,  in  describing  the  stoning 
of  Stephen,  he  wrote  :  "  When  he  had  said  this  he 
fell  asleep."1  When  we  speak  of  sleep  we  may 
think  of  the  awakening  after  unconsciousness,  or 
of  the  unconsciousness  itself.  Common  fairness, 
therefore,  ought  to  make  us  admit  that  Prospero's 
words  are  wholly  ambiguous.  With  the  recogni- 
tion of  this  fact  there  remains  but  one  passage  that 
even  promises  a  clue  to  his  beliefs  about  the  super- 
T  ..  ,  _A        sensible  world.     "  We  came  ashore,"  he 

I.  u.  159.  ' 

tells  Miranda,  "  by  Providence  divine." 
But  again  hope  fails.  For  you  may  interpret  this 
as  meaning  just  what  it  says,  or  you  may  assume 
that  Prospero  was  talking  down  to  Miranda  because 
she  was  young  and  a  woman.  Whichever  alterna- 
tive you  choose,  you  will  discover  nothing  in  the 
rest  of  the  play  to  disturb  your  convictions. 

We  have  assured  ourselves,  I  trust,  that  we  have 
no  right  to  set  down  Shakespeare's  best  characters 
as  uniformly  skeptics.  From  this  statement  it 
may  perhaps  be  inferred  that  they  agree  in  holding 
certain  positive  theological  and  metaphysical  doc- 
trines. This  is  a  point  that  we  shall  proceed  to 
investigate. 

The  most  prominent  heroic  figure  of  the  sec- 
ond period  of  Shakespeare's  dramatic  career  is 
Henry  V.  As  Prince  Hal  he  is  a  boy,  and  noth- 
ing more;  but  as  king  he  represents  devotion  to 

1  Acts  vii.,  60. 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  215 

God  and  joyful  trust  in  Him,  carried  to  the  highest 
point  attainable  by  the  active  temperament.  This, 
it  may  be  objected,  was  in  the  chronicle.  So  was 
much  else  that  is  rigorously  excluded,  as  his  un- 
pitying  persecution  of  the  Lollards  and  the  plots  to 
which  it  gave  rise.  Shakespeare  used  the  chron- 
icles as  Michael  Angelo  the  quarries  of  Carrara ; 
he  looked  them  over  and  took  what  suited  his 
purpose.  We  must  recognize,  therefore,  that  it 
is  by  deliberate  choice  that  Henry  V.  is  presented 
as  profoundly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  funda- 
mental doctrines  of  Christian  theology. 

The  first  great  figures  of  the  third  period  are 
Brutus  and  Hamlet.  Brutus,  we  remember,  exhibits 
belief  in  a  providential  government  of  the  world, 
but  he  seems  to  have  little  or  no  faith  in  immor- 
tality. We  hear  nothing  from  him  of  a  meeting 
with  his  friend  in  a  future  life,  when  anticipation 
would  certainly  have  found  expression.  Hamlet, 
too,  believes  in  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends ;  he 
believes  his  soul  immortal.  But  there  are  moods 
in  which  life  after  death  is  little  more  than  a 
"  perchance." 

As  we  proceed  the  clouds  grow  blacker.  A 
short  time  after  the  appearance  of  Hamlet,  as  most 
authorities  agree,  Measure  for  Measure  was  put 
on  the  stage.  Its  principal  male  character,  the 
Duke  of  Vienna,  must  be  considered,  I  think,  a 
doubter  or  a  positive  disbeliever  in  a  God  of  love 
and  in  immortality,  in  spite  of  an  isolated  m.  for  m. 
utterance  which  on   the  surface  seems    v-  *•  4857- 


216     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

to  indicate  the  contrary.1  For  when  called  upon 
to  prepare  Claudio  for  his  supposed  impending 
death  he  has  no  better  consolation  to  offer  than 
the  prospect  of  deliverance  from  the  evils  of  this 
life.  There  he  stands  in  the  guise  of  a  priest ;  the 
culprit  before  him  believes  in  a  life  after  death,  for 
he  shrinks  back  from  the  horrors  of  purgatory. 
Yet  the  duke  can  tell  nothing  of  the  grace  of  God, 
or  the  joys  of  heaven.  He  can  only  point  to  life 
as  a  thing  that  none  but  fools  would  keep, 
and  death  as  a  release  from  a  painful, 
meaningless  treadmill. 

The  preceding  conclusion  was  based  upon  a 
single  datum.  More  abundant  evidence  meets  us 
when  we  come  to  the  study  of  King  Lear's  most 
perfect  character.  Those  about  Kent  profess  at 
one  time  or  another  their  faith  in  an  all-just  Provi- 
dence ;  Kent  is  silent.  He  finds  himself  in  the 
Lear  II.  stocks.  "  Fortune,  good  night :  smile 
ii.  180.  once   more  ;    turn   thy   wheel ! "   is   his 

comment.     As  we   proceed,  we  discover  that  his 
"  fortune "  is   the   very   negation    of    Providence. 

„  ... For  if,  in  the  phrase,  "  If  fortune  brag 

V.  iii.  280.  »  r  >  a 

of  two  she  loved   and  hated,"  you  re- 

1  If  the  position  taken  in  the  text  is  correct,  the  duke  in  this 
passage  must  be  understood  as  talking  after  the  mauner  of  the 
people.  However,  even  if  it  could  be  shown  that  he  believed 
nothing  but  fear  of  eternal  punishment  could  restrain  a  criminal 
nature,  it  would  not  follow  that  he  believed  in  the  reality  of  such 
punishment.  In  Act  II.,  scene  iii.,  11.  30-34,  he  is  plainly  speak- 
ing in  his  character  as  confessor.  This  attitude  towards  wrong- 
doing nowhere  recurs  in  his  lines, 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  217 

place  "  fortune "  by  God,  you  get  what  is  little 
short  of  blasphemy.  Our  last  sight  of  Kent  is 
when  he  comes  to  bid  his  king  and  master  aye 
good-night.  If  "  aye  "  means  anything,  ... 
he  is  expecting  a  sleep  that  has  no  to- 
morrow's waking.  After  all,  there  is  to  be  no 
farewell  between  them  ;  Lear  is  beyond  that.  When 
the  last  breath  has  left  the  weary  body,  Kent  knows 
it  is  well  with  the  old  king.  He  is  no  longer 
stretched  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world.  But 
not  a  word  falls  from  Kent's  lips  of  a  better  land 
in  which  we  shall  meet  with  a  recompense  for  our 
afflictions. 

Most  of  these  facts  have  been  noticed  before ;  but 
one  circumstance  has  as  yet,  so  far  as  I  know, 
entirely  escaped  attention.  Kent  was  not  always 
an  unbeliever.  At  the  beginning  of  the  play,  when 
he  is  still  one  that  fortune  loves,  he  addresses  his 
master : 

"  Koyal  Lear, 
Whom  I  have  ever  honour'd  as  my  king, 
Loved  as   my  father,  as  my  master   fol- 

low'd, 
As   my  great  patron  thought  on   in  my 

prayers." 

This  is  no  mere  conventional  mode  of  speech,  like 

"  the    gods    reward    your    kindness  ! "    __    .  „ 
J  in.  vi.  5. 

or  "  God  bless   you."     It  is  part  of   a 

solemn  conjuration  in  which  every  word  is  intended 

to  have  its  full  value.     Moreover,  the  prayers  Kent 


I.  i.  141. 


2i 8     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

addressed  to  heaven,  were  no  mere  form.  He  is 
too  honest,  too  single-minded,  and  too  blunt  to 
trifle  with  religious  observances  that  mean  nothing 
to  him.  Finally,  one  who  could  step  between  Lear's 
safety  and  his  formidable  wrath  does  not  pray  in 
order  to  be  seen  of  men.  Nor  can  the  appearance 
of  this  expression  be  set  down  to  accident.  I  know 
the  casual  reader  of  the  plays  will  smile  at  this 
statement ;  but  there  are  no  accidents  in  the  great 
tragedies.  Least  of  all  in  King  Lear.  In  the 
compass  of  thirty-two  hundred  lines  is  told  a  story 
almost  as  full  of  incident  as  War  and  Peace, 
crowded  with  characters  as  clearly  conceived  and 
as  completely  developed  as  those  of  the  Russian 
novel.  These  wonderful  results  are  accomplished 
by  an  employment  of  suggestion  that  has  no  par- 
allel in  literature.  The  effect  of  every  word  is 
carefully  measured ;  it  always  reveals  something ; 
it  may  reveal  much.  What,  then,  is  inferable  from 
this  innocent-looking  phrase  ?  As  a  prosperous 
nobleman,  Kent  has  never  had  any  occasion  to 
doubt  the  existence  of  Providence.  Evil  he  must 
have  seen,  but  he  has  never  known,  or  at  any  rate 
^  realized,  its  worst  possibilities.     Then  comes  over- 

whelming misfortune  to  one  he  loves,  coupled  with 
the  revelation  of  malignant  wickedness  in  those 
whom  he  has  personally  known.  As  a  result,  God 
has  gone  from  his  world.  The  sufferings  and  the 
heartlessness  in  his  master's  family  cost  him  not 
only  his  life,  but  also  his  religious  faith. 

Three  or  four  years  pass,  and  then,  if  a  plausible 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  219 

chronology  be  correct,  appears  a  series  of  romantic 
dramas  which  practically  close  Shakespeare's  ca- 
reer as  an  author.  They  are  Pericles,  Cymbeline, 
The  Winter's  Tale,  and  The  Tempest.  In  these, 
especially  in  the  first  three,  there  is  noticeable  a 
great  alteration  in  tone.  Now,  when  suspicion 
casts  its  shadow  over  an  innocent  life,  the  vital 
forces  are  preserved  from  blight  by  faith  in  powers 
divine,  through  whom 

"  Innocence  shall  make  -..--— 

T^     *P     TTT 

False  accusation  blush  and  tyranny  ii.  31. 

Tremble  at  patience." 

When  men  are  led  to  good  by  devious  paths  whose 
end,  as  they  walked,  could  not  be  seen,  they  con- 
fess it  is  the  gods 

"  That  have  chalk'd  forth  the  way    Tempest  V. 
Which  brought  us  hither."  i-  203. 

The  human  instrument  of  deliverance  from  evil  is 
a  minister  of  God.      Gratitude  for  pro-    periCies  y. 
tecting    care,    submission   under    afflic-    *"•  59-63. 
tion  as  "  a  punishment  or  trial,"  are  the    Pericles  v. 
uniform  attitude  in  either  extremity  of    (jym.  v.  v.' 
fortune.      The   passages    cited   are   not    476-8. 
isolated  utterances,  acceptable  to  some,    c?m- P1- 
repudiated  by  others.      They  represent    w.  T.  v.  i. 
the  atmosphere  in  which  all  these  men    i?1-1?4- 
and  women  habitually  live. 

Our  investigation  thus  shows  us  that  the  repre- 
sentative figures  of  Shakespeare's  dramas  are  neither 


r 


220     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

exclusively  believers  in  a  providential  order  nor 
exclusively  skeptics.  We  discover,  moreover,  that 
if  we  arrange  his  works  in  their  probable  chrono- 
logical order,  the  metaphysical  beliefs  of  these 
selected  characters  arrange  themselves  in  a  kind 
of  Hegelian  spiral.  We  pass  from  na'ive,  unmedi- 
ated  confidence,  through  doubt,  to  a  certainty  that 
has  included  and  overcome  its  skepticism. 

What  more  natural  than  to  infer  from  these  facts 
the  course  of  Shakespeare's  own  religious  history  ? 
As  a  man  of  thirty-five  his  mind  is  illumined, 
warmed,  and  vivified  by  a  spontaneous,  vigorous 
trust  in  God.  Then,  as  the  meaning  and  extent 
of  human  suffering  and  wickedness  are  revealed, 
there  arise  questionings,  then  doubts,  then  denial. 
His  mind,  like  his  works,  is  shrouded  in  gloom,  a 
gloom  pierced  by  no  ray  of  light  from  a  higher 
world.  Finally  comes  deliverance.  He  reconquers 
the  faith  of  his  youth,  though  he  holds  it  with  a 
different  spirit.  Evil  he  now  recognizes  as  a  fact, 
but  he  sees  in  part,  at  least,  how  it  can  form  an 
element  in  a  divine  plan.  Justice  and  love  rule 
the  world,  and  we  may  believe  they  do  all  things 
well. 

Plausible  as  this  inference  from  the  work  to  the 
architect  may  seem,  I  cannot  think  we  ought  to 
allow  ourselves  to  accept  it.  The  structure  of  con- 
jecture is  too  large  and  heavy  for  the  slight  founda- 
tion of  indisputable  fact  which  is  the  best  it  is 
possible  to  supply.  In  interpreting  the  plays  them- 
selves we  may  be  less  rigorous.     Each  of  them  is  a 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  221 

group  of  problems  or  puzzles,  set  for  the  spectator's 
pleasure  and  profit.  The  answers  lie  deep  where 
the  superficial  and  the  indolent  shall  never  find 
them.  They  will  take  Lady  Macbeth's  words,  he 
"  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kind-  Macbeth  I. 
ness  to  catch  the  nearest  way,"  as  the  v- 18- 
key  to  Macbeth's  character.  They  will  innocently 
believe  that  seasoned  liar,  the  Duke  of  Vienna, 
when  he  tells  Friar  Thomas  he  is  dis-  m.  for  m. 
guising  himself  merely  to  watch  the  L  "*•  19-64. 
enforcement  of  an  unpopular  law.  No,  the  drama- 
tist is  subtle  and  will  let  no  one  win  the  prize  who 
is  not  willing  to  observe  carefully,  to  think  patiently, 
—  and  to  pay  for  more  than  one  ticket  of  admission. 
But  it  lies  in  the  very  nature  of  the  game  that  the 
solution  must  not  be  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
ingenuity.  We  must  have  data  in  sufficient 
number,  and  none  of  them,  when  viewed  in  its 
proper  relation  to  the  rest,  ought  to  be  misleading. 
Therefore,  in  a  properly  constructed  drama  the 
most  probable  explanation  of  an  action  or  character, 
even  if  it  be  only  barely  probable,  is  the  true  one. 
This  holds  even  where  the  number  of  our  data  is 
ridiculously  small,  for  we  must  believe  we  were 
given  all  we  need. 

Not  so  in  life.  Nature  has  entered  into  no 
tacit  agreement  with  us  to  preserve  all  that  is 
required  for  the  answers  to  our  questions,  and 
to  provide  a  corrective  for  misleading  facts. 
Hence  the  vanity  of  most  attempts,  considering 
the  paucity  of  our  data,  to  worm  the   secrets  of 


222     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

Shakespeare's  life  out  of  his  written  works.  I 
do  not  claim  that  the  plays  reveal  absolutely 
nothing  about  the  mind  and  the  experience  which 
were  their  source  ;  here  and  there  we  may  un- 
doubtedly detect  the  man  in  the  pattern  he  is 
weaving.  But  I  do  maintain  that  the  material 
brought  together  in  the  preceding  paragraphs,  or 
the  material  as  yet  presented  by  any  other  student 
of  Shakespeare,  is  totally  inadequate  for  the  con- 
struction of  a  theory  of  his  positive  theological 
beliefs. 

Quite  apart  from  this  general  ground  for  sus- 
pending judgment,  the  facts  we  have  been  passing 
in  review  are  susceptible  of  more  than  one  explana- 
tion. Even  if  they  constrained  us  —  as  they  do 
not  —  to  the  conclusion  that  at  different  periods 
the  dramatist  was  specially  interested  in  some  one 
of  the  various  phases  of  religious  belief,  a  consider- 
able number  of  grounds  for  such  interest  could 
easily  be  suggested.  Among  these,  acceptance, 
whether  in  part  or  whole,  of  the  creed  delineated 
can  hardly  urge  an  exceptional  claim.  Our  pro- 
legomena, at  least  in  so  far  as  Shakespeare  is  con- 
cerned, must  therefore  close  with  a  profession  of 
ignorance. 

This  secret  we  may  never  hope  to  pierce.  But 
the  poet's  thought  about  the  relation  of  belief  in  a 
providential  order  to  the  tasks  and  problems  of 
every-day  life  he  has  recorded  where  all  may  read. 
He  has  shown,  over  and  over  again,  the  power  of 
such  belief  to  comfort,  sustain,  and  strengthen  the 


Ethics  and  Metaphysics  223 

soul  in  its  conflict  with  calamity,  passion,  and  public 
wrong.  He  has  also  affirmed  with  equal  distinctness 
the  possibility  of  living  and  conquering  without  it. 
There  are  men  even  to-day  who  are  not  ashamed  to 
proclaim  from  the  housetops  their  unwillingness  to 
fight  the  good  fight  until  assured  of  being  on  the 
winning  side.  In  inspiring  contrast  to  them  stand 
certain  of  Shakespeare's  characters  who,  cheered 
by  no  sure  faith  either  in  personal  reward  or  the 
ultimate  triumph  of  the  good  cause,  deliberately 
range  themselves  on  the  side  of  right,  and  hold 
their  allegiance  in  defeat  as  in  victory.  "  Vic- 
trix  causa  diis  placuit,  sed  victa  Catoni."  "  The 
gods  took  the  side  of  the  victorious  cause,  but 
Cato  the  side  of  the  vanquished."  This  is  the 
temper  in  which  Brutus  and  Kent  fought,  en- 
dured, and  died. 

Such  men,  Shakespeare  saw,  are  facts.  He  was, 
furthermore,  convinced  that  their  judgments  of 
value  would  still  remain  sound,  the  ends  they  pur- 
sued worth  attaining,  even  if  the  universe  should 
turn  out  to  be  nothing  better  than  a  lifeless 
machine.  For  if  his  tragedies  are  studies  in  fail- 
ure, failure  does  not  consist  for  him,  as  it  does 
and  must  for  Dante  and  Bunyan,  in  losing  the 
chance  of  heaven,  whether  through  the  omission  of 
some  rite,  through  entanglement  in  a  plausible 
heresy,  or  through  death  in  the  midst  of  unrepented 
and  unexpiated  sin.  Just  as  little  does  it  consist 
in  disobedience  to  a  supersensible  law,  or  failure  to 
prepare  for  some  higher  mode  of  existence.     The 


224     Shakespeare's  Portrayal  of  Moral  Life 

tragedy  of  life,  in  his  eyes,  is  that  men  do  not  know 
how  to  gain  the  best  in  life  itself,  or  that  knowing, 
they  have  not  the  power  to  guide  will  by  insight,  or 
that  knowing  and  willing,  they  may  be  cut  off  from 
attainment  by  forces  beyond  their  art  to  control. 
Such  an  attitude  is  not  incompatible  with  beliefs 
and  aspirations  that  pierce  the  senses'  tenuous 
veil.  But  it  gives  the  lie  alike  to  the  theology  of 
Tridentine  priest  and  Genevan  theocrat.  Further- 
more, it  could  never  coexist  with  the  dogma  un- 
weariedly  proclaimed,  that  where  man  possesses  no 
metaphysical  creed  his  interest  in  the  passing  show 
of  things  is  an  illusion,  and  his  morality  a  parasite. 
"  Oar  days  are  few ;  therefore,  let  us  make  the 
most  of  them,"  wrote  the  imperial  sage,  Marcus 
Aurelius.  "  Our  days  are  few.  Emptied  of  tran- 
scendental significance,  they  are  vain  and  worth- 
less ;  let  us  throw  them  away,"  cries  the  Kantian 
philosophy.  The  former  is  the  creed  of  Shake- 
speare, as  of  Shakespeare's  heroes. 

"  The  time  of  life  is  short ! 

To  spend  that  shortness  basely  were  too 
1  Henry  IV.  n 

V.  ii.  82.  lonS, 

If  life  did  ride  upon  a  dial's  point, 

Still  ending  at  the  arrival  of  an  hour." 

A  call  to  action  this ;  a  message  of  cheer  and 
courage  to  an  age  that  sees  the  old  theology  van- 
ishing into  air  and  knows  not  yet  what  the  new 
shall  be. 


INDEX 


INDEX 


^Esthetic  moral  judgments,  65 ; 
72. 

Albany,  Duke  of,  5. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  justifi- 
cation of  the  title,  147. 

Altruism  as  a  motive  in  King  Lear, 
2  ;  as  a  motive  in  other  plays,  6 ; 
in  the  absence  of  strong  emotion, 
7,  38;  possibility  of  a  conflict 
with  egoism,  8 ;  not  identical  with 
desire  for  perfection  of  character, 
23,  89;  or  with  aversion  from 
sympathetic  pain,  87;  concep- 
tions of  its  proper  limits,  9 ;  Sidg- 
wick's  solution,  13;  in  moral  im- 
beciles, 121. 

Angelo  (in  Measure  for  Measure), 
not  a  hypocrite,  209. 

Antipathy,  immediate,  for  certain 
vices,  25. 

Antonio  (in  Merchant  of  Venice), 
his  personality,  197;  why  he  ac- 
cepted Shy  lock's  offer,  196;  12; 
81. 

Antony,  character  of,  141. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  prediction 
of  conduct  in,  141;  conceptions 
of  relation  between  freedom  and 
responsibility  in,  156. 

Approbation,  relation  to  motive,  1, 
64 ;  two  grounds  of  moral  appro- 
bation, 65;  source  of  conscious- 
ness of  obligation,  59. 

Authoritism  defined,  40. 

Autolycus,  128;  198. 

Balfour,  Arthur,  on  the  popular 
belief  in  free-will,  157. 


Banquo,  a  man  without  principle, 
24. 

Beauty  of  character,  sensitiveness 
to  in  Shakespeare's  world,  16;  its 
forms,  17. 

Bertram's  character,  145. 

"Born  criminal,"  in  the  plays,  99, 
165;  his  essential  characteristics, 
116 ;  female  approaches  male  type, 
129.  See,  also,  Moral  Imbe- 
cility. 

Bosanquet,  74. 

Brutus,  Marcus,  his  desire  for  post- 
humous fame,  85;  his  religious 
beliefs,  210,  215;  7,  14,  25;  58; 
81. 

Camillo,  7,  9. 

Cassius,  desire  for  posthumous  fame, 
85. 

"  Chance,"  its  role  in  the  plays,  189. 

Character,  causes  of,  143;  the  per- 
fect, 23. 

Claudius,  King,  26;  62. 

Coleridge,  13;  104;  113;  167. 

Conscience  defined,  97 ;  awakening 
of  in  Queen  Gertrude,  97;  ab- 
sence of,  99. 

Coriolanus  (the  play),  a  study  in 
the  workings  of  political  forces, 
51. 

Coriolanus,  why  he  opposed  the 
concessions  to  the  plebeians,  52; 
why  unwilling  to  dissemble,  71. 

Criminals,  their  use  of  euphemistic 
terms,  110;  their  desire  for  com- 
panionship in  punishment,  126; 
their  indifference  to  punishment 


228 


Index 


in  a  future  life,  128;  Shake- 
speare's portrayal  of,  in  general, 
129.  See,  also,  Moral  Imbe- 
cility. 

Desdemona,  attempts  to  find  a 
moral  justification  for  her  early 
death,  193;  12. 

Desire,  objects  of.     See  Good. 

Despine,  110;  118;  121;  124;  126; 
131;  137. 

Determinism  and  indeterminism 
defined,  135 ;  their  relation  to  the 
possibility  of  forecasting  conduct, 
137 ;  autonomic  and  fatalistic  de- 
terminism distinguished,  136 ;  the 
former  is  the  implicit  creed  of  a 
majority  of  the  characters,  137, 
152;  the  two  exceptions,  154. 

Dostoievsky,  120;  127;  201. 

Edersheim,  213. 

Egoism,  its  reaction  upon  the  agent, 
181, 187.     See,  also,  Altruism. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  nature  of  her 
claims  to  the  English  throne,  44. 

Ellis,  Havelock,  119;  124. 

Elze,  Karl,  104. 

Enobarbus,  142;  15,  37;  9,  34. 

Ethics,  problems  of,  ix,  1;  possi- 
ble divergence  between  its  theo- 
ries and  its  data,  74. 

Eudaemonism  defined,  65. 

Falstaff,  indifferent  to  all  pun- 
ishment in  a  distant  future,  128 ; 
15 ;  62. 

Fame,  desire  for,  part  played  by, 
15, 80;  desired  as  an  end  in  itself, 
81. 

Fatalism  defined,  134. 

Faulconbridge  (Philip),  his  char- 
acter, and  his  place  in  King  John, 
48. 

Faust.  78  n. 

Ferri,  120. 

Feuerbach,  121;  123;  172  n. 


Fichte,  J.  G.,  on  our  consciousnes3 
of  the  supernatural  source  of  the 
moral  law,  32  ;  10  ;  35. 

Foster,  Sir  Michael,  45. 

Freedom  of  the  will,  four  meanings 
of  the  term,  132  ;  what  forms  re- 
garded as  essential  to  responsi- 
bility, 131,  135,  152.  See,  also, 
Determinism,  Responsibility. 

Gertrude,  Queen,  awakening  of 
conscience  in,  97. 

Gervinus,  200. 

Giles,  120. 

Gloucester  (in  King  Lear),  source 
of  his  devotion  to  Lear,  4;  92. 

Gcethe,  78  n ;  206. 

Goneril,  contrasted  with  Regan,  105 ; 
a  moral  imbecile,  108;  discloses 
a  trace  of  moral  sensitiveness, 
109. 

Good  (bonum)  defined,  78;  the  good 
as  the  desired,  78,  94;  the  con- 
tent of,  79;  no  one  formula  for 
its  content  if  defined  merely  as 
the  desired,  93;  problem  of  an 
objective  standard  of,  94 ;  neces- 
sity of  such  a  standard,  77;  pres- 
ent state  of  the  general  problem, 
95. 

Good  name,  value  attributed  to,  15, 


Hamlet,  his  character,jjl;  chooses 
to  become  an  expert  fenoer  rather 
than  to  set  about  avenging  his 
father,  207;  his  views  on  the  re- 
lation of  free-will  and  responsi- 
bility ^^54;  cause  of  his  perplex- 
itv,  158  ;\his  alleged  skepticism, 
210,  215;  27;  34;  39;  81,  84. 

Happiness,  relation  of  the  external 
and  internal  factors,  194. 

Hazlitt,  113. 

Hector,  82. 

Helena  (in  All 's  Well),  her  charac- 
ter, 145;  her  deception.  69;  191. 


Index 


229 


Henry  IV.  (the  play),  penalty  of 
treachery  in,  160. 

Henry  V.,  his  character  not  trans- 
formed on  ascending  the  throne, 
149;  his  virtues  rewarded,  161; 
asserts  his  personal  rights,  11; 
has  no  scruples  about  his  title  to 
the  throne,  48;  his  view  of  the 
nature  of  political  obligation,  51, 
67;  a  believer  in  the  doctrines  of 
Christian  theology,  214;  23. 

Henry  VI.,  his  character,  20;  has 
scruples  about  his  title  to  the 
throne,  48. 

Heredity,  its  place  in  the  making 
of  character  according  to  Shake- 
speare's people,  143;  Shake- 
speare's own  view,  144. 

Heroic  type  of  moral  beauty,  18. 

Hippias,  75. 

Honor,  defined,  14 ;  value  attached 
to  it,  14. 

Hudson,  103. 

Iago,  a  moral  imbecile,  109;  mo- 
tives for  his  intrigue,  112;  looks 
upon  his  victims  with  contempt, 
168 ;  exhibits  no  desire  for  sym- 
pathy or  love  of  others,  5185 ;  the 
penalty  of  his  egoism,  183^ 

Idyllic  type  of  moral  beauty,  21. 

Ihering,  12. 

Indeterminism.  See  Determin- 
ism. 

Intuitionism,  its  theory  of  the 
source  of  the  moral  law,  40 ;  what 
it  mistakes  for  direct  intimations 
of  the  divine  will,  73. 

Isabella,  not  willing  to  make  an  ab- 
solute sacrifice  for  her  brother, 
11,  13 ;  ends  for  which  she  is 
willing  to  sacrifice  veracity,  67; 
her  moral  self-consciousness, 
25. 

Jonson,  Ben,  how  he  made  his 
plays  reflect  his  theology,  208. 


Judgment  as  the  equivalent  of  rea- 
son, 37. 
Justice  a  product  of  pity,  67. 

Kant,  his  view  of  the  nature  of 
morality,  29;  asserts  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  supersensible 
origin  of  the  moral  law  to  be 
universal,  32,  33 ;  denies  exist- 
ence of  all  forms  of  moral  insensi- 
bility, 114. 

Kent,  source  of  his  devotion  to 
Lear,  3;  his  death,  4;  his  skepti- 
cism and  its  causes,  216. 

King  Lear,  sources  of  moral  life  as 
represented  in,  56;  cf.,  also,  2; 
prediction  of  conduct  united  with 
imputation  of  responsibility,  153; 
employment  of  suggestion  in, 
218. 

Kreyssig,  57. 

Lacenaiee,  his  character  as  dis- 
played at  his  trial,  124;  love  for 
a  cat  and  indifference  to  human 
life,  122;  use  of  euphemistic 
terms,  110;  his  poetry,  126,  127. 

Lady  Macbeth,  is  without  moral 
scruples,  170;  traces  of  senti- 
mentalizing, 173;  her  sufferings 
due  to  terror,  175 ;  sleep-walking 
scene  not  a  representation  of  re- 
morse, 177;  does  not  understand 
her  husband ;  182. 

Lear,  2 ;  190. 

Lepidus,  his  character,  157;  on 
freedom  and  responsibility,  156  ; 
cause  of  his  perplexity,  158. 

Lincoln,  President,  his  theory  of 
unselfishness,  88. 

Lombroso,  120;  122;  126;  130. 

Lombroso  and  Ferrero,  129. 

Love  as  an  element  in  moral 
beauty,  17;  not  desired  merely 
as  a  means  of  self-realization,  86; 
in  moral  imbeciles,  122. 

Lowell,  J.  R.,  100  n. 


230 


Index 


Loyalty,  nature  of,  43;  loyalty  to 
God,  nature  of,  41,  54;  relation 
of,  to  consciousness  of  moral  dis- 
tinctions, 55;  place  of  loyalty  to 
God  in  the  plays,  56. 


Macbeth  (the  play),  the  cumula- 
tive effects  of  evil-doing  exhibited 
in,  162;  Ulrici  on  evil-doing  and 
its  punishment  in,  192;  its  sub- 
ject, 163;  not  a  tragedy  of  re- 
morse, 165. 

Macbeth,  indifference  to  punish- 
ment in  a  future  life,  129;  is 
without  scruples  and  remorse, 
165,  175;  traces  of  conscience, 
168;  sentimentalism,  169;  lone- 
liness and  world-weariness,  180; 
alienation  from  Lady  Macbeth, 
181;  relation  of  his  despair  to  his 
temperament,  184;  comparison 
with  Italian  despots,  179. 

Madness,  desire  for,  91. 

Malvolio,  209. 

Marcus  Aurelius,  224. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  absurdities  in 
story  of  the  pound  of  flesh,  195; 
how  Shakespeare  deals  with  these 
difficulties,  196. 

Metaphysics.  See  Religious  be- 
lief. 

Miracle,  agency  in  transformation 
of  character  denied,  149. 

Miranda,  22;  25. 

Montaigne,  197. 

Moral  imbecility  defined,  116; 
broader  and  narrower  use  of  the 
term,  117  ;  sometimes  innate,  120; 
traces  of  higher  qualities  by  its 
side,  121 ;  indifference  to  the 
future,  127;  evidence  of  its  ex- 
istence, 117;  Shakespeare's  de- 
lineation of,  99,  165. 

Moral  judgments,  always  deter- 
mined by  ideals,  64,  74;  two 
forms  of,  65. 


Moral  life,  its  fundamental  fact,  1. 

Motives  at  foundation  of  moral 
life  as  represented  by  Shake- 
speare :  altruism,  2 ;  the  place  of 
egoism,  9 ;  the  sentiment  of 
honor,  14;  immediate  antipathy 
for  certain  vices,  25 ;  cf .  also  64 ; 
as  represented  by  Kantianism, 
30;  by  rationalism,  35;  by  au- 
thoritism,  40;  God's  motives  in 
commanding  and  man's  in  obey- 
ing, 54. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  191. 


Nature,  morality  defined  as  obe- 
dience to,  75. 
Nietzsche,  19. 
Northumberland,  Earl  of,  46,  139. 


Objectivity  of  moral  distinctions, 

201. 
Obligation,    consciousness    of,    its 

nature,  59;  as  conceived  by  au- 

thoritism,  55. 
Obligation,   political,    grounds    of, 

45 ;  as  conceived  in  the  plays,  46 ; 

sometimes  based  on  the  right  of 

property,  52. 
Othello   (the    play),   prediction    of 

conduct  in,  140 ;  place  of  the  ac- 
cidental in,  190. 
Othello,  his   love  for   Desdemona, 
"  16, -fill. 


Pain,  aversion  from,  91. 

Perdita,  22. 

Philanthropy,  10. 

Pleasure,  desire  for,  90;  not  sole 
ultimate  object  of  desire,  85,  87, 
90. 

Pompey,  Sextus,  24. 

Prediction  of  conduct,  examples, 
138;  bearing  on  free-will  contro- 
versy, 137. 


Index 


231 


Prospero,  his  religious  creed,  213 
7;  23. 

Psychologist's  fallacy,  defined,   8 
examples,  8,  23. 

Punishment,  justification    of,    66 
craving  for,  118, 

Puritanism,  not  attacked  by  Shake- 
speare, 208. 

Rationalism,  as  a  form  of  trans- 
cendentalism, defined,  35. 

Reason,  morality  as  obedience  to, 
35;  as  a  motive  in  the  plays, 
36. 

Religious  belief,  in  Shakespeare's 
characters,  58,  210;  of  Shake- 
speare, 220 ;  relation  to  morality, 
58,  62,  222. 

Remorse,  cause  of,  160;  examples 
of,  159;  absence  of,  in  Shake- 
speare's worst  criminals,  99,  167, 
170 ;  testimony  of  the  authorities 
on  criminal  psychology,  116. 

Renan,  19. 

Responsibility,  relation  to  freedom, 
131,  135,  152;  Shakespeare's 
characters  regard  it  as  compatible 
with  determinism,  152;  two  ex- 
ceptions to  this  rule,  154. 

Richard  II.  (the  play),  representa- 
tion of  obligation  in,  41 ;  penalty 
of  treachery  in,  160. 

Richard  II.,  his  character,  46;  47; 
80. 

Richard  III.  (the  play),  authorship 
of,  100  n. ;  interpolation  in,  103. 

Richard  III.,  a  moral  imbecile,  100; 
his  moral  insensibility  declared 
congenital,  121;  his  failure  due 
to  his  own  misdeeds,  200;  111, 
129,  168,201;  185. 

Romantic  dramas,  their  theology, 
213,  219. 

Saxe,  John  G.,  193  n. 

Schiller,  nature  of  morality  as  por- 


trayed in  his  plays,  36 ;  his  trans- 
lation of  the  physician's  speech 
in  Macbeth,    177 ;  21. 

Self-realization,  desire  for,  79,  90; 
not  sole  ultimate  object  of  desire, 
81,  86,  89,  90. 

Sentimentality  in  moral  imbeciles, 
•^23;  in  Macbeth,  169;  in  Lady 
Macbeth,  173. 

Shakespeare,  scanty  evidence  of  his 
theories  of  ethics,  xi,  221 ;  his 
representation  of  the  objects  of 
human  desire  agrees  with  the 
doctrines  of  modern  authorities, 
95 ;  fidelity  to  fact  in  his  portrayal 
of  criminals,  129;  his  views  on 
heredity,  144,  149 ;  ignores  and 
implicitly  denies  theory  of  origin 
of  virtue  and  vice  held  by  Eliza- 
bethan church,  151;  his  views  on 
distribution  of  desire  for  sym- 
pathy, 185 ;  his  treatment  of  the 
accidental,  189;  does  not  reveal 
his  theology  in  Hamlet,  207,  212; 
does  not  attack  theological  beliefs 
through  their  adherents,  208 ;  his 
religious  beliefs,  220 ;  his  view  of 
the  place  of  religious  belief  in 
life,  222;  his  view  of  the  nature 
of  failure  in  life,  223. 

Sidgwick,  Professor,  13. 

Snider,  D.  J.  on  the  death  of  Des- 
demona,  193. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  191. 

Symonds,  on  the  life  of  the  Italian 
despots,  178. 

Sympathy,  desire  for,  its  distribu- 
tion, 185. 


Taswell-Longmead,  45. 

Timon,  his  last  banquet,  26;  com- 
bines moral  condemnation  with 
avowal  of  determinism,  153. 

Tragedy,  its  function,  189;  its  use 
of  the  accidental,  189. 

Transcendentalism,   its  account  of 


232 


Index 


the  moral  life:  (1)  Kantianism, 
30;  (2)  rationalism,  35;  (3)  au- 
thoritism,  40;  definition  of  con- 
science, 97;  incompatible  with 
Shakespeare's  representation  of 
the  moral  motives,  64 ;  denies 
moral  imbecility,  114 ;  denies 
congenital  moral  imbecility,  120. 
Types  of  moral  perfection,  25. 


Ulrici  on  the  punishment  of  evil- 
doing  in  Macbeth,  192. 


Utilitarian    moral    judgments    de- 
fined, 65;  examples,  66. 


Veracity,  casuistry  of,  67. 
Vienna,  Duke  of,  a  skeptic  in  the- 
ology, 215;  10;  34;  67,  221. 


Wainewright,  Thomas,  124. 
Wendell,  Barrett,  106. 
Wordsworth,  21. 


